



k 



MISS GARDNER'S NOVELS. 



NEW EDITIONS, JUST PUBLISHED. 



1.— STOLEN WATERS—" Stolen Waters are Sweet.". $1.50 

2.— BROKEN DREAMS— A Novel in Verse 1.50 

3.— TESTED.— A Story of Woman's Constancy 1.50 

4.— RICH MIDWAY'S TWO LOVES 1.50 

5.— A WOMAN'S WILES 1.50 

r 

6.— TERRACE ROSES 1.50 

7.— COMPENSATION— A Story in Verse 1.50 

8.— A TWISTED SKEIN— A Story in Terse— {New) 1.50 

All published uniform with this volume, and sent free by 
mail, on receipt of price, 

BY 

G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, 
New York. 



TWISTED SKEIN: 



OR, 



OUT OF THE TEMPEST. 



b X 



CELIA E. GAKDNEK, 

it 

AUTHOR OP 

"STOLEN ¥ATEE S," 



" BROKEN DREAMS," " TESTED,' 1 
ETC., ETC. 



M Two shall be born the whole wide world apart, 

And speak in different tongues, and have no thought 

Each of the other's being, and no heed ; 

And these o'er unknown seas to unknown lands 

Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death, 

And all unconsciously shape every act, 

And bend each wandering step to this one end : 

That one day, out of darkness, they shall meet, 

And read life's meaning in each other's eyes." 



*& 



NEW YORK 

Copyright, 1581, by 






G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers. 

LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO. 
MDCCCLXXXI. 



7T 






Stereotyped by 
Samuel Stodder, Trow 

Electrottper & Stereotypes, Printing and Book-Binding Co. 
90 Ann Street, N. Y. N. Y. 



TO 

Jtttnnie, 

MY SISTER, COMPANION, FRIEND. 

IN REMEMBRANCE 

OP COMMON SORROWS, AND COMMON JOYS— 

THE SOMBRE AND GOLDEN THREADS TWINED THROUGH OUR UNITED 

LIVES,— 

THIS 

"TWISTED SKEIN," 

WITH THE AUTHOR'S UNCHANGING LOVE. 

1881. C. E. G. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Prelude 9 

II. The Arrival 14 

III. In the Library 22 

IV. The Stranger's Story 26 

V. The Stranger's Story Continued 50 

VI. The Lady's Story , 96 

VII. The Kevelation 142 

VIII. Morning 180 

IX. Christmas-tide 197 

X. Love 216 

XL Doubt 222 

XII. Finale 247 



A TWISTED SKEIN". 




PEELUDE. 

L 

L AEGE and lofty room ! 

From floor to ceiling books, in many 

a tongue ; 

Between the cases portraits old are huRg ; 

From cosy niches sculptured marble gleams ; 

And fitful moonlight through deep windows 

streams ; 

The corners wrapped in gloom ; 

Soft carpets hush each footfall on the floor ; 
1* 



io PRELUDE. 

Large tables are with papers scattered o'er ; 

Great walnut chairs to lazy ease invite ; 

The windows, filled with flowers pale and bright, 

Are hung with curtains warm ; 
An easy chair is drawn before a grate 
TTherefrom the coals that glow, and radiate, 
And drop to ashes in the pan below, 
Send flashing out their ruddy, fitful glow 

Upon the slender form 
Of her, who, in the evening's deep'ning gloom, 
Sits in the half light of the dusky room, 
Alone, while drear without the Aumnin wind 
Rattles and taps at casement, door, and blind, 

With sigh, and shriek, and moan — 
A moment lulling, then, with blast more loud, 
Driving before its breath each angry cloud 
Against the sky so threateningly piled, 
Freighted with Autumn temr>est fierce and 
wild ; — 



PRELUDE. it 

With the drear night, alone ! 
Lone, in the sumptuous home she calls her own ; 
In this great world, so full of love, alone ! 



II. 



A winning, fair-browed face ! 
Rich, heavy braids of waving chestnut hair ; 
Soft cheeks, youth's roses bright still ling'ring 

there ; 
Eyes, sad and wistful, large, and brown, and deep ; 
A mouth with proud, imperious curve and 

sweep ; 

A form of lightsome grace, 
Dark-robed, and drooping in the great, deep 

chair ; 
Her round chin resting in her palm so fair ; 



i2 PRELUDE. 

While over her the flick'ring firelight streams, 
Touching the brow and cheek with loving 
gleams ; 

And now and then a ray 
Of silv'ry moonlight faintly struggles through 
The murky clouds that veil the star-gemmed blue 
And with an effort to dispel its gloom, 
Creeps for a moment in the darksome room, 

Through curtains drawn away. 
"While in the hall a clock of ancient days, 
Tolls one, and two, and three, and four, nor stays 
Till, in the hush of old Boreas' knell, 
Twelve deep vibrations, slow and solemn, swell 

Upon the midnight air. 
Then swift the pennons of the brooding storm — 
As though the pealing notes had struck to warn 
The storm King of the designated hour 
When he should loose his mighty, pent-up 
power — 



PRELUDE. 13 

Are floating every where. 
And with one flash from heaven's heaviest 

gun, 
One sharp report, the battle is begun. 




THE ARRIYAL. 




L 

IERCE roars the tempest-war ! 

The battle clamour, swells more near 
and hot ; 

Against the windows beats the frozen shot ; 
Across the skies the blazing pennons stream ; 
The battle trumpets shriek, and howl, and 
scream ; 

Now near, and now afar, 
Still comes the flash and boom, the flash and 

boom 
Of heaven's guns. And in the dusky room, 
One moment wrapped in deepest gloom of night, 



THE ARRIVAL. 15 

And in the next ablaze with, livid light, 
The lady's shrinking form 

Now bends in terror by a fireless grate, 

When — hark ! was that the clang of massive 
gate, 

By human hand impatient fiercely shut ? 

And that the tramp of iron hoof ? or but 

The war-steeds of the storm? 

Tramp, tramp, tramp, TRAMP, along the grav- 
elled drive ! 

A phantom steed, if not a thing alive ! 



II. 



Still sounds the mystic prance ! 
A moment silenced by the fearful roar 
Of battle storm without — which lulls once more, 



16 THE ARRIVAL. 

And on the drive the iron footfalls ring ; 

Distinctly heard each hoofs impatient fling — 

A pause, and then advance ! 
The door is reached — the clatt'ring hoof is still ! 
A moment's breathless hush of heart and will — 
And then, on oaken panels, loud and fast, 
Rain heavy blows. — Fierce swells the tempest- 
blast. 

Upright in easy chair 
The lady starts ; the while with straining ear 
She listens, breathless with a nameless fear. 
An aged servant stumbles through the hall, 
The massive doors unbarring, with the call 

"What means this din? Who's there?" 
The lady creeps into the darkened hall, 
And listens for an answer to the call ; 
When faintly, through the heavy, oaken doors, 
A distant voice in deep, wild tone implores 

" For God's sake, let me in ! 



THE ARRIVAL, 17 

Through pathless woods for many a weary 

league, 
O'er hill and dale, across lone moors and bleak, 
Since break of day I've travelled, fast and far, 
And braved the might of heaven's roaring war. 

I pray thee, let me in !" 
u Unbar the door !" the lady's soft tones call ; 
" And lead the faithful steed to sheltered stall." 



! III. 

Back swings the oaken door. 
The old man's torch lights up the dusky hall, 
As from the gloom without a figure tall, 
With cap drawn low, and muffled to the chin 
In dripping garments, hastily stalks in. 

Upon the marble floor 



18 THE ARRIVAL. 

His spurred heel rings ; and in his dark-gloved 

hand 
A jewelled whip is held. Used to command 
The deep low voice in which he speaks again : 
" My faith ! a fearful storm ! this frozen rain 

Cuts to the very bone. 
I lost my way just after night came down, 
And thus was forced to bear the tempest's frown. 
Rejoiced at last I reached your massive gate. 
God pity every traveler, who, belate, 

Must breast this storm alone ! 
The war of elements, although sublime, 
Proves fatal to the houseless wretch in time. 55 



TV. 

The torch, with silver sheen, 
Lights up alone the outer vestibule, 



THE ARRIVAL. 19 

But on the stalwart stranger glances full, 
While from the farther end of dusky hall, 
The lady gazes on the figure tall, 

Herself unknown, unseen. 
She marks the tow'ring form, the bearing high, 

low, deep tones, the flashing eagle eye. 
Then glides along the echoing marble floor, 
Nor speaks, nor pauses till she stands before 
The wond'ring stranger there. 
Surprised he gazes on the girlish form, 
In heavy sable robes ; the face so warm ; 
The lustrous, soul-lit eyes of chestnut brown ; 
The proud, sweet mouth ; the regal brow, with 

crown 

Of braided, gold-brown hair. 
Then bowing low before the lady fair, 
His cap he raises from his dripping hair, 
And says, in tones with def rence gentle made : 
" I crave your pardon, lady, for this raid 



20 THE ARRIVAL. 

Upon your lonely hall. 
The night is black as raven's dripping plume ; 
The tempest roars like trump of final doom ; 
So let the storm that rages fierce without 
Excuse, I pray, my clamour — blow and shout — 

This forced, untimely call. 
And let your kindness grant the boon I crave, 
A friendly shelter while the storm shall rave." 



V. 

The lady makes response 
With gentle dignity, and gracious smile — 
Her curious gaze regarding him the while — 
" You're welcome, sir, to this, my ' lonely hall/ 
And pardoned for your ' forced, untimely call.' 

Rest easy, for the nonce. 
And John, bring lights to brighten up the gloom 



THE ARRIVAL. 21 

"Which fills the corners of yon darksome room, 
Save when the lightning's fitful, lurid glare 
Creeps in, and lingers for a moment there. 

I pray, sir, come at once ! " 
Back to the empty room she leads the way ; 
The stranger following with brief delay. 




IN THE LIBRARY. 



I. 




EIGHT roars the new-born fire. 

Within the cheerful open grate piled 
high, 

The coals in golden brightness glowing lie, 
Across two figures send their ruddy rays, 
And dance and flash in blue and crimson blaze. 
The flames leap high, and higher. 
Bright lights from dusky corners chase the 

gloom ; 
With lustrous radiance fill the lofty room ; 
Glance on the rich-bound books that line the 
wall; 



IN THE LIBRARY. 23 

On pictures fair, on flow'rs and statues fall ; 

On curtains warm and red. 
Then racing down the fine apartment's length, 
Throw into strong relief the manly strength, 
The stalwart form, the bearing proud and high, 
Of him who shows in every flash of eye, 

Each bend of haughty head, 
His admiration for the woman fair, 
Who sits in graceful ease in easy chair, 
A picture of unconscious girlish grace 
In pose and figure, smiling, fair-browed face, 

And proud, yet gracious mien. 
With beautifying touch the firelight's sheen 
Lights up each detail of the witching scene ; 
With rosy flushes paints the fair, soft cheek, 
And turns to gold the banded braids so sleek 

With every fire-flash keen. 
The stranger's sense the picture so enchants 
His heart he's losing with each ling'ring glance. 



24 IN THE LIBRARY. 

II. 

And still the storm doth moan ! 
Still howls the wind in dreary wildness past ; 
The icy rain falls thicker and more fast ; 
The thunder rolls with loud unceasing din ; 
And luridly the lightning's glare shoots in ; 

The while with air and tone 
Of graceful def'rence for the lady fair 
Who sits so near him in her easy chair, 
The man relates what him of late befell 
By bosk and down, by streamlet, mount and dell, 

Through forests dim and lone. 
How one obstruction scarcely had been passed 
"When swift uprose a greater than the last ; 
"While dark and darker grew the roaring night, 
And fast and faster flashed the ghastly light 

Of blue electric flame, 
Until before his weary, dazzled eyes, 



IN THE LIBRARY. 25 

He saw at last this noble mansion rise. 

The lady listens to the thrilling tale 

"With flatt'ring interest, and cheek which pale 

With sympathy became, 
As thus the stranger to relate attempts 
The night's disasters, and the day's events. 




THE STRANGER'S STOET. 



I. 




REY broke the cheerless dawn ! 
The chime of matin-bells had 
scarcely ceased, 
And morn was blushing in the golden east 
As rosily and coy as if the day 
Had never wooed before the maiden grey, 
When o'er the grassy lawn, 
The gravelled drive, the rustic, echoing bridge, 
Through leafy lane, o'er hillock's rugged ridge, 
Through park, and clanging gate, to lone high- 
way, 
Straight on the course o'er which my journey lay, 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 27 

My steed's hoofs clatt'ring rang. 
The sun climbed high above the eastern mount ; 
Threw diamond sparkles on the wayside fount ; 
On dusty road left slanting bars of gold ; 
Looked into leafy homes with glances bold ; 

The birds awoke, and sang. 
In joyous trills the morning song began ; 
Through leafy aisles and nave the chorus ran ; 
Up through the arches of the templed grove 
Arose the song of grateful praise and love ; 

My ear the music caught ; 
Deliciously the notes the silence broke ; 
To ravishing reply the echoes woke ; 
A thousand songsters caught the sweet refrain, 
Took up the notes and sent them back again 

With added sweetness fraught ; 
The air was full of melody and song, 
And clear as mountain streamlet, pure, and 
strong. 



28 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

With sentimental sigh the morning breeze 
Made love to all the gaily-vestured trees ; 

With blushing leaflets danced ; 
Coquetted with the shadows underneath ; 
Dared in my face with saucy coolness breathe ; 
Kissed wantonly the cheek of wayside pond 
Which laughed and dimpled at caress so fond. 

The royal day advanced. 
The country sounds fell cheerful on my ear ; 
The crow of self -conceited chanticleer ; 
The neigh of lab'ring steed ; the low of kine ; 
The call of harvester ; the echoes fine, 

All but the charm enhanced. 
The scene was perfect to my 'raptured eye, 
And with a pure delight my heart leaped high. 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 29 



II. 

" Thus sped the golden morn. 
At noon I reached a rustic, wayside inn, 
As picturesque as artist e'er could limn, 
And paused awhile to rest my gallant steed, 
And satisfy my nature's craving need, 

As blast of merry horn 
Rang out upon the echoing mountain air, 
Proclaiming rest and food awaited there, 
The wearied stranger's cravings to supply. 
My steed with speed provided for, then I 

At rustic meal sat down. 
The butter was like rolls of molten gold ; 
The milk as sweet and rich, and icy cold ; 
The bread was light, and white as mound of 

snow, 
Fresh eggs, and ham as pink as sunset's glow ; 



30 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

And, richly crisp and brown, 
The speckled trout, fresh drawn from mountain 

brook. 
'Twas feasting at the board to only look. 



HI. 

" The mid-day meal was o'er. 
My steed, refreshed by rest and garnered grain, 
Soon grew impatient to be off again ; 
To reach my journey's end long was the way ; 
Thus haste behooved me. Short'ning then my 
stay, 

I rode from hospice door. 
Like recollections of a pleasant dream, 
That scene of beauty and of peace supreme 
Still lingers in my mind, as, drawing rein 
Just ere I reached the bend of road again, 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 31 

I wheeled for one last look. 
Far in the background rose the tow'ring mounts, 
Festooned with many a richly-colored flounce 
Dyed red, and purple, gold, and russet brown, 
And with a crest of sunlight for a crown. 

A singing, laughing brook 
With joyful bound leaped down the mountain 

side, 
Its waters gleaming like a silver tide — 
Flew gaily on — o'er dizzy ledges tossed — 
And rippled 'neath the bridge I late had crossed, 

Then laughing, danced along. 
A perfect picture of sublime repose, 
The simple, humble dwelling nestled close 
Within the lofty mount's protecting arms, 
Safe sheltered from the tempest's rude alarms, 

In clasp so fond and strong. 
With gable ends, and sloping, low-eaved roof ; 
Small casements from each other far aloof ; 



32 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

A wide, deep porch where sunlight lingered soft ? 
And climbing roses waved their blooms aloft 

In roses' blooming time. 
A fountain, rude and rough, but, like the rest, 
In every outline sweetly picturesque, 
Was forced to lawn from mountain brooklet 

near, 
And man and beast supplied with nectar clear, 

And sweeter far than wine. 
Far in the distance on the other hand, 
Spread level fields, until the verdant land 
Was melted in the depths of panting sea, 
"Which stretched beyond the reach of grassy lea 

A faint, blue, limpid line. 
And over all the beautifying glow 
Of mid-day sun in shim'ring golden flow. 



THE STRANGERS STORY. 33 



IY. 



u And thus the day passed by ! 
The sun went down in clouds of red and gold, 
Which shortly paled to colors grey and cold ; 
And on the confines of a dusky wood 
When night came down so bleak and drear, we 
stood, 

My trusty horse and I. 
Two paths stretched outward in the greenwood 

shade ; 
Irresolute a moment here I stayed, 
Then chose the right ; — alas ! it proved to be 
The wrong instead, as you will shortly see. 

The night grew black apace. 

At first the path was smooth, and all went well. 

The moon, with fitful sheen through tree-top 

fell, 
2* 



34 THE STRANGERS STORY. 

And glanced across the winding greenwood road, 

The long, dim aisles with rare distinctness 
showed, 

To beauty touched the place. 

But soon no more the silver gleam shone 
through ; 

The pathway wilder with each moment grew ; 

The wind rushed thro' the boughs with mourn- 
ful blast ; 

Yet still I onward pressed, until at last 
I struck an open plain. 

Myself congratulating on the speed 

"With which all barriers had been passed, my 
steed 

With kind encouragement I onward urged ; 

But ere we scarcely from the wood emerged 
A hand was on my rein. 

The rolling clouds above one instant rent ; 

The moon one gleam across my pathway sent ; 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 35 

Revealed the ruffian's form from heel to head, 
As in a rough, deep voice he gruffly said : 
' Your money, or your life !' 
My blood was up, and with defiance boiled ; 
My trusty horse beneath his grasp recoiled ; 
And when I spoke, my faith ! I think my tone 
"Was resolute as was the ruffian's own : 

1 Nor money, nor my life ! 
Let go my rein and stand aside,' I said, 
' Or else — I warn you — on your own base head 
The consequences of your act abide. 
Let go my rein, I say, and stand aside.' 

The ruffian held his ground. 
i Your money or your life !' he muttered low. 
My whip came down with sudden, stinging 

blow — 
I struck the rowels in my faithful steed — 
He reared — the rein from ruffian grasp was 

freed — 



36 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

Then with a single bound, 
And trampling 'neath his feet my fallen foe, 
Leaped onward, swift as mountain streamlet's 
flow* 



" Smooth now the way became. 
The road was plain, the moor stretched wide be- 
fore; 
The level path my horse strode swiftly o'er ; 
The threatened storm still in abeyance held, 
Though distantly the mutt'ring thunder swelled, 

The coming war to' proclaim. 
Then nearer rolled the rumbling, boding sound ; 
The lightning's flash lit up the scene around ; 
Large drops of rain plashed fiercely in my face; 
The tempest now was drawing on apace, 



THE STRANGERS STORY, 37 

When treach'rous soil gave way. 
Deep into marshy loam my steed's hoofs sank ; 
He floundered bravely, though to foamy flank 
The leechy soil was downward drawing him ; 
He still resisted, while in every limb 

He trembled with dismay. 
But added danger was delay and rest. 
I patted, coaxed, and urged, until with zest 
My panting horse the fearful strife renewed ; 
I still persuaded ; with new strength imbued 

He struggled valiantly. 
Now scarce to dripping fetlock did he sink ; 
My courage swift expanded, but to shrink 
With new despair, as deeper than before 
The treach'rous soil his trembling limbs once 
more 

Drew down relentlessly. 
Again he rose ; yet firmer grew the ground ; 
Safety approaching seemed with every bound, 



38 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

When, as before, I felt with shrinking dread 
The fickle soil give way beneath his tread ; 

Once more was hope dashed low. 
Half in despair, half courage to regain, 
I stood in silence while the plashing rain 
Beat, cold and pitiless, upon my head ; 
The thunder boomed ; the darting lightning shed 

O'er all a ghastly glow ; 
Revealed of level moor the reaches bare, 
While pointing out no path of safety there. 
But knowing well delay like this was death, 
Once more I urged him though with falt'ring 
breath, 

His failing strength to' employ. 
In vain at first were all my efforts made ; 
Then my good horse one struggle more essayed ; 
< Again the ground more firm and solid grew ; 
*More shallow mire each mad leap took him 
through 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 39 

Until, entranced with joy, 
I heard his light hoofs ring on flinty ground, 
And knew the danger passed, and safety found. 



VI. 

" Then on we pressed once more ! 
My horse, elated at the peril fled, 
Snorting and frightened at the war overhead, 
Flew as with wings of Pegasus endowed, 
Until, revealed by lightning-rifted cloud, 

A wood rose dark before. 
In blank dismay I drew a sudden rein, 
Glanced back along the level, treach'rous plain 
With such dire danger but so lately crossed, 
Then forward at the forest, tempest-tossed 

And lit with ghastly light. 
A solid wall of boundless height it rose, 



4 o THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

All human entrance seeming to oppose ; 
While in its dark recesses startled owls, 
Joining to tempest din unearthly howls, 

Made hideous the night. 
Slow sank my heart in depths of dark despair. 
From quicksand's peril, and from robber's snare 
I'd but escaped new obstacles to meet ; 
Danger before, behind, beneath my feet, 

And raging overhead. 
My way was lost, I realized too well ! 
The greenwood path I chose as darkness fell, 
Had led far from the goal I sought to gain ; 
Upon my face cold beat the sleety rain ; 

And while, with stately tread, 
The coursers of the storm marched on their 

track, 
Caparisoned with trappings gold and black ; 
While 'heaven's artillery' still louder boomed, 
And Night in arms of light electric swooned, 



THE STRANGERS STORY. 41 

I sat, with loosened rein, 
Despairing at the hour's untoward fate, 
Uncertain what new perils might await, 
Irresolute what course to now pursue — 
Or back or forward pressing to my view 

Seemed equally in vain. 
Across the moor did I my steps retrace, 
The past hour's dangers I'd again to face, 
With little hope of striking at the last 
The greenwood pathway I that eve had passed ; 

While on the other hand, 
To onward press was but to meet, perchance, 
New perils which the tempest would enhance ; 
While every forward step yet farther past 
The point I wished to compass, led me fast. 

Thus did I, halting, stand 
Awhile in dire perplexity, despair ; 
With garments drenched, and dripping beard 
and hair. 



42 THE STRANGERS STORY. 



VII. 

" At length I desp'rate grew. 
'Twas death to cross the leechy, rain-soaked 

moor; 
I could encounter nothing worse before ; 
And then, it might be better than my fear ; 
To stand in idle hesitation here 

Was folly, well I knew. 
Resolved whatever befell to forward ride — 
"Whatever danger that black wall might hide — 
I onward spurred ; but to my sharp dismay 
My horse refused the rowels to obey. 

He'd plunge, and snort, and rear, 
While seeming quite unmindful of my rein, 
My coaxing tones, my hand upon his mane ; 
And when — a last resort — the lash I tried, 
The poor beast wildly plunged from side to side, 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 43 

Half mad with pain and fear. 

Trembling in every limb, eyes flashing fire, 

At every stroke he only reared the higher ; 

Fell on his haunches — wheeled — curvetted — 
pranced, 

But not a single onward step advanced, 

Though coaxed, and lashed, and spurred. 

Dismounting, I to lead him on essayed, 

To soothe with words the fears he thus dis- 
played ; 

But still I patted, petted, urged in vain ; 

For once oblivious did his ear remain 
Unto his master's word. 

This was a new perplexity indeed, 

Unlooked for from my gentle, trusty steed. 



44 THE STRAXGERS STORY. 



Till. 

" Then came a sudden crash. 
A lightning bolt from heavVs heaviest gun 
With aim unerring had its mission done, 
And laid a mighty forest monarch low. 
Across my pathway lay my blazing foe, 

Its vivid, blood-red flash 
Illumining the leafy wall before, 
The nearer reaches of the dusky moor, 
And painting, with its dashes red and clear, 
Each feature of a scene as wild and drear 

As fancy could sugge 
While still the pouring rain dashed fiercely 

down, 

mpting, but in vain, the flames to drown, 
Which at each onslaught seemed to leap the 

higher, 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 45 

Crowning with wreaths of lambent, glowing fire 

Each king in scarlet dressed. 
And still the pealing thunder roared and 

crashed ; 
The crinkling lights above each moment flashed, 
In mock'ry laughing at the cruel work 
Which plunged to heart of oak a flaming dirk ; 

And still through forest lone 
The wind from frozen chambers of the north 
With howl, and shriek, and moan dashed wildly 

forth, 
And blew with mighty breath the flames again 
Which leaped, and flashed, until with ruby rain 

Each twig and leaflet shone ; 
While far beyond the confines of the light 
Stretched boundless reaches of sepulchral night ; 
And deep in forest chambers hung with green, 
Slept purple glooms, untouched by scarlet sheen, 

Which gave the picture tone. 



46 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

How weird j and wild, and grand the glowing 

view, 
My words are pow'rless to convey to you. 



IX. 

" Thus motionless I stood 
With foot in stirrup, bridle in my hand, 
And gazed upon the panorama grand, 
Oblivious to all except the power 
That held me spell-bound in this fearful hour, 

In midst of fire and flood, 
Unmindful that the night wore on apace, 
Forgetful that in this deserted place — 
My bearings lost, no place of shelter nigh, 
A pathless wood before, and raging high 

An autumn tempest wild — 
I stood, alone but for my faithful steed. 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 47 

Paying to none of these a moment's heed, 
And recking only that before me spread 
A scene of grandeur and of beauty dread 

"Which had my sense beguiled. — 
And still the rain did battle with the fire ; 
The scarlet flames seemed ready to expire — 
Anon in desperation upward leapt 
To prove they were but feigning that they 
slept — 

Then faltered and grew pale ; 
Now reeled and staggered, faint for want of air ; 
Then rallied from their swoon of dark despair, 
And with assumption pitiful of life, 
Kenewed again the fierce unequal strife, 

Though all to no avail. 
Too strong the enemy they sought to' oppose. 
Their doom was sealed — they yielded to their 
foes! 



48 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 



" The rain was victor now. 
But still as if, like one of ancient Rome, 
Resolved to bravely die if death must come, 
With one last effort, one expiring sigh, 
The paling flames leaped grandly, proudly high, 

And by their parting glow 
Revealed to dazzled but rejoicing sight 
An op'ning in the forest far to right ; 
An op'ning broad and clear, while overhead 
The forest giants had their arms outspread 

A leafy arch to form. 
I into saddle sprang with one swift bound ; 
My horse obeyed the spur, and o'er the ground 
Flew swiftly tow'rd the spot which seemed to 

me 
A God-sent pathway to security, 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 49 

To*rest, and shelter warm. 
Nor was I self -deceived — as this good chair 
And glowing fire — (thanks to this lady fair,) 
Most cheerily attest." — And with a smile 
Whose sweetness might the proudest heart be- 
guile, 

And one admiring glance 
Within the eyes whose varying light and shade 
Such flatt'ring interest constantly betrayed 
In all he said of that disastrous night 
When every element did thus unite 

To check his steed's advance, 

He once again his easy pose assumes, « 

And speedily his narrative resumes : 
3 



THE STRANGER'S STORY CONTINUED. 




ND so I onward rode. 

The trees above me spread their 

sheltering arms 
And beckoned from the tempest's ruder charms 

Which held me spell-bound on the open moor, 

While untried dangers darkly loomed before, 

And on my heels swift trode. 
The path was well defined, and overspread 
With fallen leaves on which my horse's tread 
Eell hushed and soft as footfall on the floor 
By webs from Persian loom spread richly o'er. 

A small stream gently flowed 



THE STRANGER'S STORY. 51 

Beside my path, its tiny murmur lost 
In thunder's roar, and groan of branches tossed 
From side to side with rude resistless might 
By spirits of the air which o'er the night 

Held undisputed sway. 
But now and then a bristly branch bent low, 
And dashed across my face with stinging blow ; 
Or, hurled with force from tree-top's lofty 

height, 
My good horse struck, which started with 

affright 

And madly dashed away. 
While overhead the elemental war 
Still shot its angry missiles near and far. 



52 THE STRANGER'S STORY 



II. 

" For still the storm-king raved ! 
His chariot wheels still rumbled near and loud, 
And echoed from each lowly bending cloud ; 
His courser s hoofs struck fire at every leap ; 
His herald's trumpets sounded long and deep ; 

And still his pennons waved 
In lurid tints defiance to the f 

.inst a background black as Stygian flow. 
The way at length grew rude and boulder- 

s:rewn : 
For dying leaves, sharp pebbles thickly sown 

My pathway roughly paved ; 
The branches lower grew, and lashed my face 
"With angry violence at every pace ; 
While now and then in stress of spiteful wrath 
The boughs joined hands across my toilsome path 



CONTINUED. 53 

And swept me from my seat. 
The fallen trees which barred the way so weird 
With flying leap my horse in safety cleared ; 
But many a pitfall all unseen, unknown, 
With treach'rous twigs and branches overstrewn, 

Tripped up his wary feet. 
But these were merely trifles when compared 
Unto a fate from which we scarce were spared. 



III. 

" Undaunted on we pressed. 
And as at length the way less toilsome grew, 
And now and then the lightning's glare flashed 

thro' 
The thinning tree tops erst so darkly dense, 
The midnight blackness growing less intense, 

In my despairing breast 



54 THE STRANGERS STORY 

Sweet Hope to joyous being sprang once more ; 

And when I saw an op'ning just before, 

With naught between the belt of woodland 

broad 
Beset with perils — safely passed, thank God ! — 

And yonder low'ring sky, 
Rejoiced to think the peril overpast, 
A road to safety almost reached at last, 
And glad the forest glooms to leave behind, 
An unobstructed path once more to find, 

Rode on with courage high. 
But as, unmindful of the pouring rain, 
Or tempest war, I spurred along the plain, 
A sudden flash revealed a rocky ledge ; 
My steed's hoofs rang upon the very edge ; 

Another step, and down 
To voiceless depths we had been swiftly hurled, 
Nor you, fair lady, nor my little world 
Had heard the tale I have essayed to tell, 



CONTINUED. 55 

Which, dull or stirring, you have listened well." 

To his the eyes of brown 
Eager with interest are lifted now, 
While on the soft pale cheek, and regal brow, 
From which his thrilling tale the bloom had 

chased, 
A faint pink flush the pallor has replaced ; 

And with a smile more bright 
Than flashing firelight's brilliant, changeful glow, 
She answers him with tones as sweet as low : 
" Nay, more than stirring, sir, your story's been. 
Almost I saw the lightning's lurid sheen 

Which made your path alight, 
And pointed dangers that your lone way crossed ; 
Almost I heard the groaning branches tossed 
Like helpless saplings by the storm's rude might ; 
Almost I felt the thrill of dread and fright 

With which upon the brow 
Of that dark gulf you paused in sudden fear, 



56 THE STRANGERS STORY 

So vivid has your story been, and clear. 

To tell, I pray you, sir, do not delay, 

How fared you further on your per'lous way." 

K Short space suffices now 
My story to complete," the man replies, 
While beams his brow, and smiles his lips and 
eyes. 



IV. 

" Adown the dizzy steep 
For one dread moment horrified I gazed ; 
Far down the black abyss the lightning blazed 
And then went out in deep Tartarean night ; 
While I, bewildered, on that fearful height 

Sat still in horror deep. 
By tightened rein and quick commanding tone, 
My trusty horse upon his haunches thrown 



CONTINUED. 57 

Stood motionless, obedient to the rein 
The which I dared not slacken, till again 

The friendly lightning's flash 
Had shown me where his feet might safely rest. 
A leaden weight seemed pressing on my breast ; 
The blood within my veins had ceased to stir 
So full of horror dire the moments were, 

While far beneath the crash 
Of rolling thunder echoed deep and long. 
My brain is cool, my nerves are sound and strong, 
Bat those few moments on that dang'rous height, 
The while I waited for the flashing light 

To show where safety lay, 
Seemed to my tortured heart a rounded year. 
Then first I learned to know what men call fear. 
I'd looked ere this upon the face of Death 
With heart undaunted, and unbated breath, 

And held the foe at bay ; 

But it is one thing, lady fair, to face 
3* 



58 THE STRANGER'S STORY 

The King of Terrors, even, in a place 

Where you may battle with him, hand to hand, 

Another, on a brink like this to stand 

While at your very feet 
A black abyss of unknown depth yawns wide, 
The which a single step to either side 
Adown may horse and rider quickly dash, 
Your only hope the lightning's friendly flash, 

So fitful and so fleet." 
" Such threat'ning doom the stoutest heart might 

quail," 
The lady says with trembling lips and pale. 



" With radiance divine 
At last it came — a vivid chain of light 
Upon a sky more black than Egypt's night ;" 



CONTINUED. 59 

"With answ'nng smile he hastens to resume. 
" Nor was I slow to 'scape the frightful doom 

Which almost had been mine. 
One shudd'ring glance adown the deep abyss 
Through which the forked lightning seemed to 

hiss; 
One agonizing search for safety's path, 
While far above me burst the thunder's wrath, 

And far beneath my feet 
The angry sound reverberated long, 
From rocky chasms rising hoarse and strong, 
Caught up, thrown back, again, and yet again, 
And then I loosed once more my tightened rein, 

And joyfully and fleet 
My noble steed dashed onward like the wind, 
Leaving the yawning chasm far behind. 



6o THE STRANGER'S STORY 



YL 

" My tale is almost don©. 
For many a mile along the open plain 
I rode at random, without drawing rein ; 
Regardless of the storm still swelling hot ; 
Whither my steps were tending knowing not, 

Nor recking, so that on 
They swiftly bore me from the dang'rous height 
Which had for me the record of the night 
So nearly closed. But on my listening ear, 
Alert for aught that should of danger near 

A timely warning sound, 
At last a noise of rushing water fell, 
Faintly distinct from thunder's roar and swell. 
From sweep of wind, or rain drop's rapid beat 
Falling upon me in an icy sheet. 

In vain I glanced around, 



. CONTINUED. 6 1 

Drew rein and listened to the rash and fall 

Of unseen water ; like a fun'ral pall. 

So close in many a clinging, opaque fold 

The darkness wrapped me round — so constant 

rolled 

The thunder's sullen boom — 
So clear and strong the echoes o'er and o'er 
Repeated both the tempest's heavy roar 
And sound of cataract, I could not tell 
Or at my side or in my path it fell, 

Or yet how dire the doom 
Which now was threat'ning. List'ning thus in 

vain, 
I paused a moment only — loosed my rein, 
And trusting to my brave, sure-footed steed, 
And Him whose care surrounds us in our 

need, 

I cautiously rode on. 
Straight forward — neither to the left or right 



62 THE STRANGER'S STORY 

His footsteps swerved, as on through blackest 

night 
He slowly bore me, while distincter yet 
Above the tempest's roar, the rush and fret 

Of tossing water, down 
From unknown heights impetuously flung, 
Was borne unto my ear. — The voice that sung 
In sweetest silv'ry notes to th' summer breeze, 
Which murmured fondest thoughts to th' o'er- 

bending trees, 

Now hoarse with pain and wrath, 
Lashed into fury by the tempest's breath, 
Shouted defiance to the storm, and death 
To the benighted trav'ller should he dare 
Attempt to stem its angry current there. 

Along the dang'rous path 
My horse's hoofs paced cautiously and slow, 
Awhile — but paused abruptly as the flow 
Of angry waves his dripping fetlocks swept. 



CONTINUED. 63 

I knew not why lie stopped — knew naught 
except 

That danger lay ahead. 
Dismounting cautiously, in hope to learn 
What peril menaced now, and to discern 
Where safety lay, full ankle deep my feet 
Splashed in the waves whose throbbing, surging 
beat 

Showed that the torrent's bed 
Lay close beside, beneath, perchance before, 
The while a mufflec but terrific roar 
Betrayed how near a raging cat'ract fell. 
To cross just here was death, I knew too well. 

So, motionless with dread, 
As once before, I waited for a ray 
Of heav'n's electric light to point the way. 



64 THE STRANGERS STORY 



YIL 

" How gracious and how kind 

Is He who in His strong, all powerful hand 

The elements doth hold ! Who may command, 

And even ocean's surges must obey ! 

His breath the storm-cloud speeds upon its way ; 

His grasp controls the wind— 
The winds ! we know not whence they come, or 

go; 

Perchance they're God's own breath, pulsating 

slow 
Or quick, as throbs His great, all-loving heart, 
Whose veins run through the world, life to im- 
part. 

One breath born of His might 
And quick the feeble spark of life goes out 
In night and darkness ! yet how sweet about 



CONTINUED, 65 

Our brows the summer breezes play, and soft 
As kisses pressed by loving lips so oft ! 

To Him the day and night 
Are subject. "Willed He thus, no more the sun 
Should rise to glad us ; nor when day is done 
Should it withdraw its burning, dazzling light 
And give to us the cool and dew of night ; 

And yet the dark and light 
Succeed each other with their varying charm ; 
The day with sunlight brilliant is, and warm ; 
Upon our midnight shines the moon from far ; 
He gives the mariner a polar star 

By which to steer his barque 
Across the pathless waves of mighty seas, 
From northern snows to sunny southern leas ; 
And when no more the moon gleams pale from 

far, 
When tempest clouds obscure the northern 
star, 



66 THE STRANGER'S STORY 

And nights are wild and dark, 
His hand directs the fearful lightning's play, 
To lead the 'wildered trav'ller on his way. 



Yin. 

" For this I waited long. 
The storm had lulled — to gather added force ; 
The rain more gently fell ; and low and hoarse 
The distant murmur of the thunder swelled, 
As hither, thither, by mad winds impelled 

The clouds were born along. 
The lightning flashed, but fitfully and pale, 
And shed no radiance in the lonely vale 
Where on the torrent's brink I waiting stood. 
The moon shone softly on a distant wood, 

Her pale and lovely face 
One moment showing through an inky cloud 



CONTINUED. 67 

Which parting slightly her sweet gaze allowed, 
But on my path she sent no kindly gleam, 
And not one ray lit up the rushing stream 

By which I paused. The place 
Still lay enshrouded in the deepest gloom. 
The time seemed long. The rift through which 

the moon 
Showed her sweet face I watched with eagerness, 
Hoping 'gainst hope to see the clouds grow less 

Intensely black and dense, 
The rift enlarge and show enough of blue 
My half -despairing heart to reimbue 
With fast-dissolving courage. But in vain 
Were all my hopes. The clouds soon closed 
again ; 

The darkness more intense, 
If that were possible, each moment grew ; 
The wind, reviving, fierce and fiercer blew ; 
The thunder rumbled nearer and more loud, 



68 THE STRANGER'S STORY 

As rapidly the dark, low-bending cloud 
The zenith shrouded o'er. 
And then there came a brilliant flash of light, 
And as it paled, another, still more bright ; 
The whole meridian seemed to be aflame ; 
And as the parted clouds together came 

The crash, and roll, and roar, 
Reverberating rocky cliffs among, 
And back from lofty mounts in echoes flung, 
"Was something grander than my words can tell. 
The double flash, too, had illumined well 

The whole surrounding scene. 
Before me, from a dizzy altitude 
Where bristling rocks their jagged points 

obtrude, 
A sheet of snow-white water foaming dashed ; 
The silver spray like myriad diamonds flashed 

In that electric sheen, 
As in a rocky basin wide and deep, 



CONTINUED. 69 

The foaming torrent in a last mad leap, 
With hoarse deep roar fell, almost at my feet, 
Laving my horse's limbs with fretting beat, 

As on the basin's edge 
Full ankle deep we stood, my steed and I, 
In th' foaming flood. All this my eager eye 
In briefest space took in, while by the light 
Of that first flash the whole wild scene was 

bright. 

A lofty, ragged ledge 
Precipitously rose before my face, 
Rifted midway to give the torrent place ; 
It stretched before me like a massive wall 
Far to the right ; would I proceed at all 

'Twas plain through rocks and sedge 
My course lay, round the mountain's base, in 

hope 
Beyond a smoother, safer path might ope. 



7o THE STRANGER'S STORY 



IX. 

" This, you will understand, 
The second flash which lit the gloom revealed. 
Again I mounted ; to the right I wheeled ; 
And slowly o'er the rocks which paved my 

way 
Proceeded on my course. As bright as day 

The scene, so wildly grand, 
"Was by the friendly lightning often made ; 
Thus with each point so brilliantly displayed 
I could not lose my way. At length before 
I saw the ledge was sloping more and more 

Toward the level ground. 
And so ere long before me spread again 
A sweep of gently undulating plain ; 
And to my joy I struck a well trod road 
Which slowly led to higher land, where flowed 



CONTINUED. 71 

The stream erewhile I found 
Dashing so madly through the rocky cleft, 
And down the lofty ledge I late had left. 



X. 

" So hope revived once more ! 
Not since the night so dark and wild became, 
With thunder resonant and light aflame, 
Had I a travelled road like this one found ; 
And as my steed's hoofs sounded on the ground 

Like footfalls on a floor 
Of tesselated marble, or as rang 
O'er rocky road, and echoing bridge, the clang 
Of hurrying hoofs upon that fearful night 
When Tain O'Shanter took his famous flight 

By witches swift pursued, 
I dared to hope the night's disasters past, 



72 THE STRANGER'S STORY 

And that this well-trod road would lead at last 
To human habitations, there to find 
Rest for my wearied frame and o'erwrought 
mind 

In Death's similitude 
Sweet Sleep's most blest oblivion. But not yet 
Was safety reached, or the last peril met." 



XL 

A moment pausing there, 
The lady says : " Forgive me, sir, I pray, 
That I, unmindful of the toilsome way 
By which you have been led this dismal night, 
And of a hostess' part forgetful quite, 

Have not forborne to spare 
Until repose your sore fatigue had cured, 
And Sleep refreshment to your mind assured, 



CONTINUED. 73 

Your kind recital of the night's events. 

The which I've heard with int'rest so intense. 

And that indeed must be 
For my discourtesy in that respect 
My sole excuse. Such culpable neglect 
Forgive, I beg ; and till the morning light 
Defer the farther hist'ry of the night." . . . 

" Nay, lady," answers he, 
While beaming smiles light up his fine dark face, 
"No cause for self-reproach has she whose grace 
Has granted to the houseless wanderer 
Shelter and warmth, nor scrupled to confer 

Still sweeter boon than these, 
Her gentle presence both to charm and cheer. 
More grateful far the rest afforded here 
In easy chair, by glowing fire like this, 
Than downiest couch could give. Nay, not 
remiss 

In finest courtesies 



74 THE STRANGER'S STORY 

Hast thou, fair lady, been. And naught to ask 
Has he who finds it but a pleasant task 
Thus to relate, with what poor skill he hath, 
The many dangers that beset his path 

Through hours of night and storm." 
" Thanks for the kindness that would seek to 

spare 
Reproach so well deserved. Not thus my care 
And hospitality is often shown 
To those I welcome to my home so lone ;" 

With blushes swift and warm 
The gentle lady hastens to reply. 
" So wild the night, so terrified was I 
With many nameless fears, so very sad 
And desolate I felt, I was too glad 

Above the tempest's roar 
To hear the beat of horse's hoofs without — 
. When I had overcome the first wild doubt 



CONTINUED. 75 

Which stilled my heart's wild throbbing for a 

space, 
Lest those were phantom feet whose rapid pace 

Approached my lonely door. 
Not long I cherished such a foolish fear. 
Naught could be worse, I felt, on night so drear 
Than solitude like mine. Thus you'll believe 
I hailed with joy aught that should bring reprieve ; 

And that your presence here 
Is unto me a boon of no less worth 
Than is to you the comfort of my hearth." . . . 
Pleased at the lady's gentle graciousness, 
And for her loneliness perplexed to guess 

What reason can appear, 
He sits a moment silent, with his eyes 
Fixed on the crackling fire, and then replies : 
" Your words embolden me to ask of you 
What otherwise I'd not presumed to do- 
Why lonely and alone 



-: THE STRANGER'S STORY 

I find you* lac wild a nigl: : 

T i who should t 7ntre and the light 

Of he circle. Why each room 

J. m -Lould chase the 

gloom 

rems, and lona 
U I presume, I -ess grant. I pr 

Nor 1 e in whatever way 

or kindness deems most :iiles at 

And lifting arc' - - o brown eves to his 
Hi playful m e — 

adventurous night 
I reserve the right 
presumptuous i 'fy, 

Or give Qm censur- ^ou imply, 

Yam ooldness would deserve 
ends lug head with mock i i ~eness. 

Y o ladyship's command is law P 1 he s^ 



CONTINUED. 77 



XII. 

He hastens to resume : 
" The tale of this adventurous night, which you 
Do me the honor thus to listen to 
With kindest interest, may soon be told : 
Along the well-made road beside which rolled 

The turbid, swollen flume, 
My horse dashed swiftly for a little space, 
And then abruptly checked his rapid pace, 
And in another moment stood quite still. 
I urged him to advance in vain. His will 

Was stronger than my own ; 
But taught by dangers past from which my steed 
Had saved me, in this self -same way. indeed, 
I ceased to urge him on, though somewhat vexed 
To be detained, as, well as much perplexed. 

What obstacle unknown 



78 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

Was now across the path that seemed so smooth 
'Twas quite impossible to guess. In sooth, 
I doubted much if 'twas not his conceit 
Alone, that thus had stayed his wary feet. 

My own was greater yet, 
As was by the event distinctly shown, 
The which his fine intelligence made known, 
Thus, undecided on my further course, 
And half impatient at my faithful horse, 

Inclined to quite forget 
How much I owed to his sagacity, 
I sat in silence, while I longed to see 
The lightning's flash the scene around illume, 
And show what peril, hidden by the gloom, 

Was lurking just ahead. 
But faster than had been my own swift pace 
The heavy clouds above had changed their place 
And drifted somewhat farther east. But soon 
The lighter clouds were rifted, and the moon 



CONTINUED. 79 

Looked brightly forth instead ; 
And by her friendly, and most welcome beam, 
I saw that just before the swollen stream 
Flowed noisily across my very path. 
I guessed how great the current's force and 

wrath, 

How fierce and swift its pace, 
"When I perceived on either side the road 
Huge stone abuttments reared, which plainly 

showed 
A bridge had once the rushing streamlet 

spanned. 
I doubted not the torrent's mighty hand 
Had torn it from its place ; 
I doubted not that on the further side 
The well-broke road stretched onward, smooth 

and wide ; 
I doubted not it led to what each hour 
I longed and hoped for with intenser power — 



8o THE STRANGER'S STORY 

A shelter from the storm. 
But should I trust to such a surging tide 
My good steed's strength, already sorely tried ? 
Or should I seek another path to find, 
And leave the road and roaring brook behind ? 

The hope was too forlorn. 
"With one brief prayer to Him who rules the 

w T ave, 
One kindly word to Selim, good and brave, 
I urged him to attempt the dang'rous ford. 
He first resisted, then obeyed my word 

And plunged within the stream/ 
No ford was this ! the waters bubbled high 
And fierce around us ; rushing madly by 
And half submerging us, as, struggling on, 
The furious current almost bore us down. 

Dark did the prospect seem 
Of ever reaching through that angry tide 
The goal I sought — the mystic other side. 



CONTINUED. 81 



XIII. 

" Thus fiercely buffeted — 
One moment yielding to the current strong 
In sheer fatigue, and swiftly borne along, 
How far adown the stream I dared not think — 
Then as hope died, and faith began to shrink, 

And craven courage fled, 
The strife renewing, bending all his strength 
Against the surging tide, until at length 
The longed-for shore he almost would attain, 
To be swept downward by the stream again. 

His strength was spent, I knew ; 

In many a way ere this so sorely tried, 

"What wonder 'gainst it such a furious tide 

Had soon prevailed ! I petted, coaxed, and 

cheered ; 

But utterly exhausted he appeared. 
4* 



82 THE STRANGER'S STORY 

I knew not what to do. 
I thought of home, and of my mother sweet — 
How she would list to hear my tardy feet, 
And sicken o'er and o'er with hope deferred, 
As moons should wax and wane and bring no 
word 

Of me, her absent son. 
I pictured how her cheek would pale with grief ; 
How e'en the Healer, Time, but slight relief 
Would bring her loving, sorely-stricken heart ; 
Knew at my name the burning tears would start 

In years not yet begun. 
My father too — I did not him forget 
In that sore hour — I knew that heavier yet 
Than all the sorrows of the years long fled, 
This blow would fall upon his aging head. 

And then I thought of one 
In no degree less dear than these, whose name 
Had blent with every dream of future fame 



CONTINUED. S3 

Through all the years of my maturer lif e, 
An impetus affording in the strife 

For honors to be won. 
The strife was finished now, and fame would 

seem, 
To' have been the ' baseless fabric of a dream/ 



XIV. 

" And thus in sharp contrast, 
And swifter than my words suffice to name, 
Hopes, memories, regrets, together came, 
Chasing each other through my mind's domain, 
And crowding on my half-bewildered brain — 

The future and the past 
, Inextricably mingled in my thought, 
Till what was truth, what fancy, I had sought 
In vain to demonstrate ; and through it all 



84 THE STRANGER'S STORY 

The mem'ry of that cruel waterfall 

Dashing so mad and fast 
Adown its dizzy ledge of ragged stone, 
Was surging like a solemn undertone 
That swells and sobs all through a dirge of death. 
This while my faithful Selim's panting breath 

His deep exhaustion showed ; 
While faith and courage died, and hope was lost 
In stern despair ; while buffeted and tost 
By every wave, we drifted down the flume 
To what it seemed must be our certain doom. 

A chill of horror flowed 
Through every pulse at thought of death like 

that : 
Dashed helpless down that fearful cataract 
From rock to rock, a hundred feet or more — 
Our requiem the water's sullen roar, 

Our shrouds the filmy mist, 
The foaming pool below a fitting tomb 



CONTINUED. 85 

To hold the victims of so sad a doom. 

At thought of this my heart grew strangely chill ; 

My pulse throbbed hard, and acting on my will 

Aroused me to resist. 
Should I succumb to Fate's tyrannic sway 
Without one other desp'rate struggle? Nay! 



XT. 

" I gathered in my hand 
The bridle — which from my despairing clasp 
Had almost slipped — with firm and steady grasp ; 
I struck my horse a sharp and sudden blow, 
And sternly bade him bear me on ; and lo, 

Not useless my command. 
He rallied all of his remaining force, 
And struck out bravely for the shore, his course 
Directed by my hand upon his rein. 



86 THE STRANGERS STORY 

I cheered him constantly, until again 

He almost reached the land; 
And then his energy began to fail, 
And my faint hopes to sicken and grow pale ; 
Too well I knew of rest the fearful cost 
To him and to myself — that to be lost 

Was what delay meant now. 
"With voice and rein I kept him to the strain ; 
And when he yielded to the tide again 
I merciless became — my sole resource — 
With whip and spur I urged him on his course ; 

No pause did I allow, 
For now the current ran less swift and strong — 
The shore was near — I knew he must ere long 
A footing find the shallow waves below, 
Where its low banks the waters overflow. 

Thus forcing an advance, 
Soon on the sandy bed foothold was gained ; 
But though to keep it every nerve he strained, 



CONTINUED. 87 

Sometimes too strong the current proved e'en 

yet 
For his exhausted strength ; but bravely met 

Was every new mischance ; 
Quick struggling to his feet renewed the strife 
As though he knew the stake to be his life ; 
And when at last he reached the blessed land, 
So great was his fatigue he scarce could stand. 

From out the hungry wave 
With one last effort of expiring strength 
He dragged his trembling limbs, and stood at 

length 
Shiv'ring and panting on the yielding sand. 
As I dismounted, and with voice and hand 

Cheer and caresses gave, 
He 'gainst my shouldar leaned his weary head — 
His sole response to the kind words I said. 



SS THE STRANGER'S STORY 



XVI. 

" Of rest how sore liis need ! 
I stood beside him, wearied, stiff, and lame, 
Until his lab'ring breath more gently came, 
And he his strength could partially regain ; 
Then mounting, up the stream I turned again 

And urged him to proceed ; 
For far below the point I hoped to reach 
We'd landed, on a strip of sandy beach, 
"While up the flume a hundred rods or more, 
The good road stretching from the rocky shore 

I doubted not must lead 
To town or city, hamlet, hall, or cot — 
Which it might be to me it mattered not, 
So that a shelter there I might obtain 
From sweep of boist'rous wind and sleety rain. 



CONTINUED. 89 

The veriest hut had seemed 
A palace to the shiv'ring wretch, for hours 
The sport and victim of those unseen powers 
Which rule the elements with mighty sway, 
And guide and speed the storm-cloud on its way. 

The moon which softly beamed 
At intervals across my wat'ry path, 
Had hid her face ; the clouds had gathered wrath 
And broke once more in fury o'er my head ; 
The way was rough — o'er sharp-cut boulders led, 

And tedious shifting sand. 
'Twas plain we'd drifted farther than I thought ; 
And I began to fear the road I sought 
Existed only in my fancy wild, 
Long ere I reached it — that the stones high piled 

Upon the farther strand 
In solid masonry were but a myth — 
A phantom built in stone — a monolith 



9 o THE STRANGER'S STORY 

"Which marked some ancient deed — the bridge a 

dream, 
And nothing real save that furious stream 

Whose current fierce and cold 
Had almost swept me to that unknown sea 
Which we call Death — God, Immortality. 
But suddenly before my face upreared, 
A high embankment, sand and rock, appeared ; 

And there in outlines bold 
The empty piers before my vision came, 
Illumined by a flash of lambent flame, 
My friend unfailing. Up the rocky slope 
I spurred, while in my heart sweet, buoyant 

Hope 

Held joyous carnival. 
The top was reached — the longed-for road was 

found. 
Beneath our feet was firm and flinty ground ; 
Before us stretched a straight, well-trodden path ; 



CONTINUED. 91 

No longer did the tempest's stormy wrath 

My joyful heart appall ; 
I scarcely felt the cutting, stinging pain 
When on my face fast beat the icy rain ; 
I scarcely heard the thunder's sullen roar, 
For to my heart Hope whispered o'er and o'er 

Rest, shelter now is nigh. 
An hour, or more, or less, had swiftly sped. 
The road grew broader, harder ; while o'erhead 
Great trees bent low a shelter to afford 
The wretched trav'ller from the storm that 
roared 

So fiercely, madly high. 
At equal distance placed on either side 
The graded road, I fancied they implied 
The near proximity of human homes. 
And so it proved. Ere long on tow'rs and 
domes 

The blazing lightning glowed. 



92 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

A goodly sight to traveller belate — 
For hours the victim of an adverse fate—. 
This mansion towering in pride and state 
The lofty trees above — the massive gate — 

The sweep of drive that showed 
Beyond it, leading to the mansion fair. 
I tried the lodge, but found no porter there ; 
I passed the gate which closed with sullen 

clang — 
On well-kept drive my steed's hoofs echoing 

rang 

As onward swift I rode. 
The door was reached ! Dismounting, I made 

bold 
To knock and enter ! The result behold ! 



CONTINUED. 93 



XVII. 



" My story is complete ! 
However weakly told, you've listened well. 
I've marked your bosom's agitated swell ; 
The color on your fair cheek come and go ; 
And in your eyes the opalescent glow 

So changeful and so sweet, 
"Which spoke more eloquently than you knew, 
The sympathy that my disasters drew 
From your too kindly heart ; — which, thus dis- 
played, 
Beguiled me on until I fear I made 

My story far too long. 
If so, forgive ! An interest so great 
More flatt'ring is than words can indicate. 
But now the ' tale of this adventurous night ' 
Is finished, my presumption pray requite 



94 THE STRANGER'S STORY. 

With censure just and strong, 
Or in the gentle kindness of your heart, 
The story of your solitude impart 
To him who craves it out of int'rest kind, 
And sympathy for one he grieves to find 

So lone on night like this. 
Though my desert is small, I leave my fate 
In your fair hands, dear lady, and await 
My sentence from your lips ; in this secure, 
From one so kind and gentle, good and pure, 

It cannot be amiss." 
" 'Tis true," she answers with a saucy smile, 
" That your desert is small : but to beguile 
The passing hours of this distressful night, 
I shall your most presumptuous wish requite 

By making the attempt 
To tell you something of the causes strange 
That have conspired together thus to change 
My home from one of happiness and cheer 



CONTINUED. 



95 



To what you find it — empty, lone, and drear." 

Her face grows sad, intent, 
As she with many a pang, and many a sigh, 
Relates the story of the days gone by. 




THE LADY'S STOKY. 




^HE storm has lulled at last — 

For see! the lightning's flash no 
more gleams blue, 
Each distant tree-top bringing clear to view ; 
And hark ! no more the thunder's angry din 
Awakes the echoes empty rooms within ; 

'No more the wind sweeps past 
With madness in its loud and boist'rous tone ; 
But in my life so desolate and lone, 
So destitute of home's delights and cheer, 
So rifled of the friends my heart held dear, 
The storm still rages wild. 



THE LADY'S STORY. 97 

My life is empty as the rooms above. 
And cruel Death has gathered all I love, 
And left me, as you see, alone and sad. 
My mother died — a sweeter none e'er had — 

"When I was but a child. 
I just remember her sweet face and smile, 
The deep, deep love, the playful, tender wile 
"With which she taught me all a babe could learn ; 
I just recall how I, in sweet return, 

Was wont her cheeks to press 
With baby fingers scarce more soft or white 
Than hers, and lisp with infantile delight 
The holy words she taught my lips to say, 
Then 'gainst her own to lay my cheek, and pray 

1 Dear God, my mamma bless !' 

I just remember when my prayer was said, 

And I was ready for my tiny bed, 

The soft, soft kisses showered on my face, 

The warmth and tenderness of her embrace, 
5 



98 THE LADY S STORY. 

The murmured words and fond ; 
How o'er her pleasant task she lingered long, 
"With many a pretty tale or tender song 
Her darling soothing to a babe's sweet rest, 
So gently pillowed on her loving breast ; 

How quickly she'd respond 
"With passionate caress, or tender smile, 
To every innocent and artless wile ; 
And how, as loath to yield to sleep's repose 
I would my drowsy eyelids still unclose 

To look upon her face, 
Her hand would press my soft cheek closer still, 
With deepest love her sweet blue eyes would fill, 
And murm'ring words more tender than her 

song, 
She'd bend her cheek to mine and hold me long 

In close and fond embrace ; 
And so I'd drift away to infant sleep ; 
And so these loving mem'ries still I keep ; 



THE LADY'S STORY. 99 

And though, 'tis long since she, my mother, died, 
Though many a change my young, sad heart has 
tried, 

And years have left their trace 
Upon the dimpled cheeks and infant brow 
She loved so well, I long for her e'en now." 



IT. 

Although with interest keen 
The stranger lists each- sadly spoken word, 
While all his heart to sympathy is stirred, 
A swift amused smile lights up his eyes 
As thus she speaks and pauses. — With surprise 

'Tis by the lady seen. 
She looks at him with grave, enquiring face, 
And quickly he responds with courtly grace : 
" Forgive me for the smile to you may seem 



ioo THE LADY'S STORY. 

To mock a daughter's longing so supreme 

For one so early dead. 
'Tis sad to be thus lonely and bereft, 
And motherless in infancy be left ; 
I with you for your loved and lost would grieve : 
And deeply does my heart respond, believe, 

To all that you have said. 
I smiled to think upon your lovely face 
How many years had left their fatal trace ; 
How vainly would your mother, could she now 
Look on her daughter's velvet cheek and brow 

(So changed by grief and time). 
Seek for the semblance of the darling child 
She loved so well. For this alone I smiled, 
For this I would your pardon humbly crave." 
" I scarcely know how for offence so grave 

You hope for grace of mine — 
How you my pardon dare expect to gain 
For ridicule so palpable and plain." — 



'x'HE LADY'S STORY. 101 

This to his impudence lier stern reply ; 

Bat her soft laugh, and smiling, sparkling eye 

Shows all her wrath assumed. 
" Not thus," she adds, " did I your story list, 
Or so your modest narrative assist." 
" Nay," he responds with grave, admiring mien, 
" Of listeners you've truly proved the queen ; 

And I who have presumed 
To tire you with a story of such length, 
Then make to you so base return, the strength 
Of your resentment well deserve to know, 
Which in your kindness you forbear to show. 

Again with deepest shame 
I beg you will my prayer for pardon hear — 
Believe my penitence is most sincere 
For smile, and thought, both so inopportune, 
And granting this your story please resume." 

" Reward then you would claim, 



io2 THE LADY'S STORY. 

As well as pardon !" she returns with, smiles, 
His heart ensnaring by her modest wiles. 



III. 

" Of her who loved me well," 
The lady now continues, " little more 
Than I have told you, mem'ry holds in store. 
I faintly recollect how to her breast 
With tears and anguished sobs I once was 
pressed, 

And felt my bosom swell 
With sympathetic sorrow at her pain ; 
And how to soothe her grief I tried in vain 
With every art a baby's love invents, — 
Which seemed instead to make it more intense. 

The cause I can't explain. 
If it was grief to feel the grave so near — 



THE LADY'S STORY. 103 

To leave the child than her own life more dear, 



L 5 



To grow to womanhood without the care 
Of mother-love to guard from worldly snare ; 

Or if for such deep pain 
A cause there was with which her child beloved 
Had naught to do, I never fully proved. 
I know she was not happy as a wife, 
And that her innocent and pure young life 

Was shadowed by a cloud 
Which turned her gladness into bitter grief. 
And made the story of her life so brief. 
I've studied long her portrait hanging now 
Where then it hung, and cannot but allow 

The face, if sweet, is proud. 
And I have gathered from the little learned 
Of her young life, that he she loved had turned 
To her when wounded by another's scorn, 
And offered her a heart still scarred and torn — 

A pitiful exchange 



io4 THE LADY'S STORY. 

For one so fresh, so loving, and so true ! 
That when at last the bitter truth she knew, 
She turned from him with all a woman's pride, 
And wounded, stricken to the heart, she died. 

It would not then be strange 
If for the anguish which I recollect, 
This was the primal cause — as I suspect." 

IV. 

" Tour story's passing sad !" 
The stranger says, with slightly moistened eyes. 
The lady faintly smiles as she replies ; 
" Yes ! it is sad to think to heart so fond 
His whose it was with love could not respond ; 

A life so pure and glad, 
So full of promise in its morning hours 
Should thus have faded like frost-blighted 
flowers. 



THE LADY'S STORY. 105 

But I believe the heavy cloud had passed, 
And she been happy in his love at last, 

But for her pride and scorn. 
I know my father truly grieved above 
The still, cold form of her he vowed to love ; 
I recollect the bitter tears he shed 
Beside our beautiful and early dead, 

"With me, his earliest born, 
Clasped closely to his wildly throbbing heart. 
How much regret, remorse, in this had part 
I was of course too young to estimate. 
I know I thought his sorrow very great, 

And sobbing, closer crept 
Within the arms whose hold was fond and kind. 
I still remember when for her I pined, 
And why she came not scarce could understand, 
How sad his face, and gentle was the hand 

That dried the tears I wept ; 
How patiently he put aside his book, 



io6 THE LADY'S STORY. 

\ How tenderly and cheerfully lie took 
His child upon his knee, and sought to find 
Diversion for her sorrVing heart and mind. 

I think he scarcely knew 
How much he loved my mother, till her loss : 
Until the sense of it had swept across 
His lonely heart, and he had come to miss 
Her gentle smile and word, the timid kiss, 

The face so sweet and true ; 
Until my longing for her made him feel 
How sad a thing it was that death should steal 
A mother from her tender infant child, 
"Who, though so young, could scarce be reconciled 

To miss her love and care. 
I think he knew that he had spoiled her life ; 
That she had not been happy as his wife ; 
And ever felt a deep and sore regret 
That in his selfish blindness he had let 

His wife, so young, so fair, 



THE LADY'S STORY. 107 

Turn from him in her pride and bitter pain 
Without one mighty effort to retain 
Her love and trust. I've often seen him gaze 
With deepest sadness on her pictured face, 

Then turn away with sighs, 
And pace the room with head bent on his breast, 
And face so full of pain and sad unrest 
My heart ached for him. But, though far from 

cold, 
His nature was reserved. He never told 
In words the grief that lies 
In hearts like his too deep for careless speech, 
And that not e'en a daughter's love could reach." 



V. 

" And so you only guessed 
The story of your father's wedded life, 



108 THE LADY'S STORY. 

And his estrangement from his fair young wife?" 
" Nay — I have gathered much from trifles slight, 
Which, wove together, made a chain of light. 

I have surmised the rest — 
The grief my father felt, and sad regret 
For her whose love with coldness had been met. 
But from some letters to her by a friend 
She loved and trusted, in that sad time penned, 

I came to understand 
There was a sorrow in her life so deep 
It made her whole heart sore ; nor could I keep 
The subject from my thoughts till I had turned 
The last page of her journal, and had learned 

My father's was the hand 
That struck the brightness from her glad young 

heart. 
But even then I only learned in part 
The cause of all, for she was prudent too, 
And scarcely more than hinted it all through. 



THE LADY'S STORY. 109 

But it was sad indeed 
To read the close-writ pages, and discern 
The glory of the music slowly turn 
To saddest minor strains, until it passed 
To a pathetic wail of pain at last. 

The words I scarce could read 
For the fast-dropping tears that stained the page, 
So did they every sympathy engage. 



VI. 

" To make my chain complete 
I gained some links from yet another source, 
"Which gave the half -guessed story greater force 
My mother's sister to our lonely home 
Kindly consented for a time to come — 

A woman fair and sweet 
As she we lost, and filled her empty place 



no THE LADY'S STORY. 

As none beside could do. Her lovely face 
Was sad, for she too was estranged 
From him she loved; a shadow vague had 
changed 

Their plighted love and trust 
To bitterness ; misunderstandings, born 
Of pride, I do not doubt, far more than scorn, 
Had severed hearts that for the other beat. 
She cast him off — his ring tossed at his feet. 

He picked it from the dust, 
And turned and left her sad and sore at heart, 
To only know thenceforth love's bitter part. 
She kept her pride intact 'tis true, but oh, 
She dearly paid for it in years of woe. 

He left her, as I said, 
And wedded one — in pique — he scarcely knew, 
And never loved. — But proved the adage true, 
1 In haste to wed, at leisure to repent [' 
Their married life in distant lands was spent — 



THE LADY'S STORY. m 

f 

For she, the wife, is dead ; 

And two years since he met his early love, 

And they are wedded now, and blest above 

All other lovers whether wed or not. 

So they believe, at all events. His lot 

At least, is blest indeed, 
To have so sweet a woman for his wife. 
God give to her a long and happy life 
To compensate for all the painful past ! 
I'm thankful every day she's glad at last, 

However great my need 
Of her companionship and presence here. 
And that my need is great to you is clear." 



yil 

" Aye, great indeed !" he says, 
With tones half tremulous from pity kind. 



ii2 THE LADY'S STORY. 

" My heart grows heavier momently to find 
How lone and desolate is she whose grace 
And gentle goodness, shining through a face 

Of winning loveliness, 
Fits her to be the centre of a home 
Of warmth, and light, and joy, where she had 

known 
But love and tend'rest care engird her round, 
Shielding from all that could distress or wound/ ' 

" Thanks for your pity, sir," 
The lady answers, pleased and touched to hear 
Such kindly words in tones that seem sincere. 
" So i lone and desolate ' is she that e'en 
A stranger's sympathy a pleasure keen 

Can on her heart confer. 
And naught than that more forcibly I know 
My bitter need could have availed to show." 
" Dear lady, e'en in your short life have you 
Ne'er proved that sympathy more kind and true 



THE LADY'S STORY. 113 

A ' stranger's ' heart may feel — 
If haply strung to vibrate with your own — 
Than that of one perchance you long have 

known, 
And toward whom you in your grief might turn 
To find how faint the spark divine doth burn, 

How shallow and unreal 
The sympathies which to your needs respond, 
Where you had looked to find them deep and 

fond ; 
If so you readily will comprehend 
That though in fact a stranger — yet a friend 

In feeling for your lot — 
My heart a sympathy both deep and true 
In this your hour of need doth give to you ; — 
You who until this fateful night unknown, 
Have by the cords of pity round me thrown — 

Designedly or not— 
In firm and friendly hold bound to your own 



H4 THE LADY'S STORY. 

A heart which never faithless has been shown 
To man or womankind. — Long years agone 
I read in ancient book a tale of one 

Who by an adverse fate 
Blown hither, thither, through a world of care, 
Cold, weary, hungry, homeless, in despair 
Of human help or pity, saw before 
Invitingly spread wide a massive door, 

And as the hour grew late, 
In his extremity so dire and sad 
Of any promised shelter but too glad, 
Crept through the open portal where he found 
Books heaped in many a pile from marbled 
ground 

To frescoed ceiling high ; 
While silent groups of readers sat before 
Great oaken tables spread with papers o'er, 
Or volumes huge whose heavy blazoned leaves 
Crackled like trodden twigs on Autumn eves. 



THE LADY'S STORY. 115 

A vacant table nigh, 
With empty leathern chair that stood beside, 
The weary, shiv'ring wretch with joy espied, 
And dropping in the chair's extended arms, 
Gave up his starving soul to all the charms 

That dwelt within the place : — 
Light, warmth, and stillness ; and — oh boon 

most rare ! 
Of food aesthetic what a plenteous share ! 
Such food as had to him been long denied — 
Poor, cultured wretch, against a strong head tide 

Rowing a losing race ! 
Forgotten were his stomach's cravings keen, 
While for his mind sueh store of meat was seen 
Spread bounteously and free on every hand ; 
And as he read, the warmth so soft and bland 

His shiv'ring form crept round, 
And wrapt him gently in its genial arms ;, 



n6 THE LADY'S STORY. 

A hundred lights breathed low their drowsy 

charms, 
The very stillness deeper grew, unbroke 
Save by the turning leaves which scarcely woke 

The heavy air to sound ; 
And lower, lower drooped his weary head, 
Till on the massive book from which he read, 
In gentle rest it pillowed lay at last, 
And Sleep had in her shackles bound him fast. 

And as he slept, he dreamed ! 
The hour was late, the place had empty grown — 
Thus dreamed he — till he seemed at length alone 
Within the strange and silent room, so rich 
In store of rare and costly books, o'er which 

The softened lights still streamed. 
And as he raised his eyes and glanced around 
The great deserted hall, surprised he found 
Long vistas open to his wond'ring gaze, 



THE LADY'S STORY. 117 

Deep lined with books, while near each lofty 
case 

Vague shad'wy forms appeared, 
To fix whose outlines he in vain essayed ; 
For as he gazed they seemed to dim and fade, 
Each melting into each, with subtle change 
Appearing, vanishing, until the strange 

And shifting scene he feared 
Was but the picture of an o'er-taxed brain 
Disordered by a long and serious strain. 
But, musing thus, he saw approaching him 
An aged form from yonder alcove dim, 

Where in a burnished grate 
The fading embers of a fire were seen ; 
And as he nearer drew, his shad'wy mien, 
The far-off, dim regard of pale blue eyes 
That met his own, filled with a chill surprise 

The man who seemed to wait 
With fettered will, and slowly beating heart, 



n8 THE LADY'S STORY. 

The strange unfoldings of the hour, his part 
In which as yet he scarce could understand. 
The old man nearer came — within his hand 
A tome of pond'rous weight ; 
And as he turned the blazoned leaves he said, 
In tones that seemed an echo from the dead : 
' You wish your volume sir, no doubt ! what 

name V 
And as no answer to the query came, 

The sage repeated slow — 
c What name ? You wish your volume sir, no 

doubt, 
"Wherein your destiny is written out. 
You're highly favored in the flesh to be 
Permitted thus your Book of Life to see. 

Those yonder, sir, you know 
Are but the souls of them who've left in sleep 
Their bodies, while they hither speed to peep 
Within their books, their further fate to find. 



THE LADY'S STORY. 119 

"When they to-morrow waken, in their mind 

Some mem'ries faint and fair 
Of what they read perchance may still remain. 
But little vivid will their minds retain. 
But you are here in body, and may peep 
Within the books they visit but in sleep — 

A privilege most rare P 
The young man, list'ning with wide open eyes, 
Stood silent, in unbounded, chill surprise ; 
And then he saw, as at the shad'wy throng 
He closer looked, that each one held a long 

Thick volume strongly bound, 
Wherein with eagerness he searched and read. 
At last he spoke : ' Who then are you V he said, 
' And what this place?' The old man made 

reply : 
This is the Library of Fate, and I 

The master here. Look 'round — 
From these the one that bears your own name take. 



120 THE LADY'S STORY. 

See that the cords you do not strain or break. 
Aye, take it down ; none but yourself has power 
To touch it, and you only at this hour. 

When yonder clock strikes one 
Your chance is gone. Be quick if you would 

read 
What destiny awaits you.' Though indeed 
With trembling hand, he took the volume down 
Which bore his name upon the yellum brown ; 

And found, so finely spun 
But for the old man's warning they had been 
Scarce noted in the soft, uncertain sheen, 
From out its pages many a tiny thread 
To books above, below, around it led ; 

Some were of sombre hue — 
Of rose, or gold, or silk were some, but all 
To other volumes led or great or small. 
6 Whose books are those to which my own is 
bound?" 



THE LADY'S STORY. 121 

The young man asked, surprised at what he 
found. 

1 Those who have been with you 
By Fate connected since your birth ; the thread 
That binds them to you marks the page/ he said, 
1 Whereon their destiny as linked with yours 
Has been inscribed by Fate. Ton clock assures 

The moments quickly speed ; 
If you would read, young man, read on, and fast, 
Ere this auspicious hour be wholly past.' 
Thus urged, he opened where a thread of gold 
Marked two embellished pages ; but behold, 

"When he essayed to read, 
He found, chagrined, the characters were strange ; 
Small, crabbed, close, and quite beyond the range 
Of his poor comprehension. As he gazed 
Upon the baffling pages, vexed, amazed, 

And disappointed sore, 
The old man slowly said, ' Aye, I forget ! 



i22 THE LADY'S STORY. 

Your soul's eyes in the flesh are buried ; yet 
They can be opened — thus ! ' and with his thin 
And shadVy fingers touching them, therein 

Seemed thrust, with anguished bore, 
Hot needles, piercing through and through the 

ball. 
He glanced upon the written page which all 
Illumined seemed, and clear each crabbed 

stroke — 
He stooped to read — then started — and awoke ! 

He had delayed too long. 
The striking clock had broke the mystic spell, 
And he in ignorance still was forced to dwell. 
This long-drawn tale which interrupts your own, 
Dear lady, will to you, I trust, have shown 

How fine, and yet how strong 
The cords are spun which bind us each to each, 
And that tonight we touch the one will reach 
From out the pages of my Book of Life, 



THE LADY'S STORY. 123 

Straight to your own : with pleasant pictures 
rife 

The story written there 
I pray may be ; the thread a silken one, 
Ne'er tangled till our tale of life is done. 
Forgive this interruption long, I pray, 
And so your story please resume straightway^ 

Assured I do not spare 
The sympathy your sorry lot doth plead, 
Though but a stranger till this hour indeed." 



VIII. 

" My story well can wait," 
The lady answers with a gentle smile, 
" For one so thrilling as was yours." The while 
She can but feel amused at what 'twas meant 
To point, believing it mere sentiment 



i2 4 THE LADY'S STORY. 

That 'twas the hand of Fate 
Had linked their lives together, who till then 
Were strangers, and would shortly be again ; 
Although 'twas made, by earnest tone and 

glance, 
To seem the kindly, heart-felt utterance 

Of one both true and kind. 
She touched and grateful feels as well for what 
Has but too rarely fallen to her lot 
Of late to make it worthless to her seem — 
Warm human sympathy, in whose soft gleam 

The saddest heart must find 
Some tender solace for its bitter woes. 
And she too well the value of it knows — 
Too ardently has longed through lonely hours 
To feel once more its genial, soothing powers, 

To spurn it e'en from one 
Who but for one brief night her path doth cross, 
To leave her then to solitude and loss. 



THE LADY'S STORY. 125 

But grateful as she is she yet forbears 
Her gratitude to utter, and prepares 

The story late begun 
To further weave ; so gath'ring as before 
The broken threads, resumes her task once more. 



IX. 

" If I remember right 
I said I gathered from another source 
Some links that added to the strength and force 
Of that slight chain e'en yet far from complete. 
And these were gained from her, the woman 
sweet 

Who as I said, made bright 
The home by death left desolate and drear. 
From her I learned that he, my father dear, 
Had loved and wooed a maiden for his wife, 



126 THE LADY'S STORY. 

But spoke at last to find her heart and life 

Were to another vowed. — 
That other, one who shared his infant play — 
His youthful couch — beside him day by day 
To manhood growing, only to impart 
The deadliest wound to his too faithful heart, 

As earnest as 'twas proud. 
I know not if 'twas wilful, that great wrong, 
But lasting his resentment proved, and strong. 
One stormy scene there was, and then the twain 
Had parted — parted ne'er to meet again 

This side Death's rushing tide. 
One wedded her, the maiden both had loved, 
"Who of dissension such sad cause had proved ; 
And he, my father, in his pique and pain 
Another wooed, and wooed her not in vain, 

But won her for his bride. 
You've seen how fatal to the wedded wife 
Became the love which then was dear as life ; 



THE LADY'S STORY. 127 

How soon the heart but caught in its rebound 
Failed to respond to hers so sweet and sound ; 
And how she drooped and died, 
Crushed by the knowledge that her love was 

vain, 
And cold the breast whereon her head had lain. 



" I know not if I've said 
My mother left a babe scarce six months old- — 
A lovely boy with curls of shining gold, 
And eyes as blue as are the skies of June ; — 
Eyes like the mother's who had died too soon. 

A boy who captive led 
The hearts of all that looked upon his face- 
So bright it was with sunny infant grace, 
So brief the clouds that o'er it ever swept. 



128 THE LADY'S STORY. 

Of course within my father's heart he crept 
: Until his very life 

Seemed wrapped about the person of his boy, 
Who came to be almost his only joy- 
Dearer by far than I, although to me 
]STo tenderness was e'er denied ; but he. 

The image of the wife 
So wronged, so early lost, was something more 
Than child of his had ever been before. 
He grew almost to manhood, gay, and bright, 
Of every gathering the central light, 

Of home the pride and joy ; 
And when he went away at last to gain 
Proud academic honors, as 'twas plain 
To partial love he could not fail to do, 
It seemed that all our joy and brightness too 

Went with the merry boy. 
Nor was it seeming only ; since that day 
Joy from our home has hid her face away. 



THE LADY'S STORY. 129 



XL 

" Six months flew onward fast. 
And brought our darling to his home again ; 
But with him came new pangs of fear and pain, 
For he was changed, and seemed no more the* 

bright 
And merry boy in whom our proud delight 

Had centred in the past. 
Impatient, fretful, moody he had grown, 
And talked sometimes with such a reckless tone 
My father gazed at him in shocked surprise, 
While tears of pain rose to his gentle eyes. 

And yet he nothing said 

Or in reproof, entreaty, or complaint ; 

Nor sought to fetter him by one restraint 

Which should occasion give him to rebel 

Against authority we knew too well 
6* 



i 3 o THE LADY'S STORY. 

He had not learned to dread. 
No doubt my father thought 'twas but the 

change 
From home to college life had worked the 

strange 
Unpleasant alteration in our boy ; 
That when his pow'rs should find a full employ 

In reading more mature, 
And he had grown accustomed to the rude 
Transition from a home of quietude 
To all the bustle of the college hall, 
His healthy nature could not but recall 

The teachings sound and pure 
"Which from his earliest infancy had been 
"With never ceasing care instilled therein ; 
That then it must itself assert once more, 
And to his heart his wayward son restore. 

I think my father erred. 
I think it had been wiser to restrain 



THE LADY'S STORY. 131 

The wilful boy, with stong, firm hand ; that vain 
If then employed such efforts had not been, 
And all that after-time of shame and sin 

Perchance had ne'er occurred. 
He erred through love ! oh God, that it should be 
That love like his such bitter fruit should see ! " 



XII. 

By her too-painful past — 
Which thus recalled rolls back upon her heart 
With all the old-time bitterness and smart — 
Quite overcome, her grieved and quiv'ring face 
Within her hands she buries for a space, 

While tears fall thick and fast 
And drip in crystal drops her fingers through ; 
And on her lashes brown in diamond dew 
Lie glittering as she looks up to see 



i 3 2 THE LADY'S STORY. 

The stranger's eyes all dim — ah, can it be ? 

Or is it but the mist 
Though which she gazes at his visage kind ? 
She dries her own and looks again to find 
She has not been deceived. " Forgive ! " she 

says/ 
With faint, sad smile. " So recent are those days 

I cannot yet resist 
The burning tears that will unbidden fall 
Whene'er their bitter record I recall." 
The stranger answers not : too doubtful he 
If his control of voice so perfect be 

The lady 'twill assist 
In her attempts composure to regain ; 
Yet feels assured his sympathy is plain. 



THE LADY'S STORY. 133 



XIII. 

" Upon that sad, sad time," 
At last she slow resumes, " I will not dwell ; 
You know the story doubtless but too well, 
For 'tis, alas, one far from new or strange — 
From boyhood's innocence the rapid change 

To folly, sin, and crime ; 
While they who hold him dear look on with 

pain, 
Pow'rless to save, or even to restrain, ■ 

And when at last the downward race is run, 
Lie prostrate in the dust, dragged down by one 

Long held more dear than lif e ; 
While where the blame and where the fault hath 

lain, 
'Tis ever difficult to ascertain. 
No doubt my brother's training had not been 



i 3 4 THE LADY'S STORY. 

Such as should fit him the assaults of sin 

To meet with manly strife. 
Forth from the shelter of a pure home, thrown — 
ISTo safeguard save the teaching he had known — 
Upon the tender mercies of a throng 
Of reckless students, to whom right and wrong 

Were empty words, I fear ; 
With nature gay and bright which led him on 
To taste of pleasures he had known anon 
As merely abstract, half unmeaning names, 
While through his veins youth's hot blood surged 
, in flames, 

And in his willing ear 
The tempter whispered constantly and loud, 
Supported by the cheering, shouting crowd ; — 
What wonder that the pressure proved too strong 
For his weak will; that he 'twixt right and 
wrong 

The difFrence failed to see, 



THE LADY'S STORY. 135 

Or seeing, was too weak to choose the right ; 
Too young to bear a man's part in the fight ; 
Too frail to keep his standard through the fray 
And by his very daring win the day, 

Made by the conquest free. 
The very traits which rendered him so dear 
To all who knew him, proved, I can but fear, 
The strongest threads in that entangling snare 
Which tripped and held him down, till in 

despair 

He cut the cords of life 
And perished in the net — but not alone, 
For at that blow he snapped the strings of one 
So linked with his it could but feel the stroke 
Which smote the other till the life-cord broke. 

The sacrificial knife 
Its work, alas, accomplished but too well, 
And red with heart's blood from his weak hand 

fell. 



i 3 6 THE LADY'S STORY. 



XIV. 

" Short was the downward race ! 
A few brief months to mad indulgence given — 
To list'ning to the tempter's voice till heaven 
And home and honor vanished from his sight, 
And then of revelry one mad, wild night 

"Which came and fled apace, 
And left him in the garish light of day 
To look with fevered eyes along the way 
His reckless feet had led him, seeing there 
The ruins of his wrecked youth, while each fair 

And noble nope and aim 
"With which so gaily he the race began, 
Lay strewn along the path down which he ran 
So rapidly he had not paused to think 
Of whither it might lead, till on the brink 

Of ruin and of shame 



THE LADY'S STORY. 137 

He stood at last, with leisure to look back 
Along the fatal, downward-shelving track, 
To feel the crowd of debts he now must face, 
And see before expulsion and disgrace. 

The bitter, hateful sight 
Of double shame was more than he could bear — 
For he was proud if weak — and in despair 
In whose deep blackness not one ray appeared 
To light the darksome future he so feared, 

Into the blacker night 
Of everlasting death he reckless rushed, 
And fears, remorse, and earthly pangs were 

hushed 
In the eternal stillness of the tomb. 
Can you imagine, sir, the weight of gloom 

Which fell with crushing might 
Upon our hearts when first the tidings came 
Of our deep loss — and his — so — bitter shame ?" 



138 THE LADY'S STORY. 



XV. 

The lady's gentle tones 
Grow tremulous and break to thus recall 
The details of her wayward brother's fall ; 
And once again her aching, tear-filled eyes 
Her slender fingers press, as she to rise 

Above the grief she owns 
Is too intense to always be repressed, 
So bravely strives, lest he, her stranger guest, 
Should be distressed at pain he cannot share, 
Though kindly sympathy he may not spare. 

Nor does she strive in vain. 
Repeated griefs have taught her self-control, 
And sorrows borne in silence strength of soul. 
And so her tear-dimmed eyes are dried apace, 
And she her story to resume essays : 

" How mighty was the pain 



THE LADY'S STORY. 139 

With which we looked upon the still, dead face 
Of him, our pride and darling, where the trace 
Of reckless passion might be plainly seen — 
Though death had given it a grace serene 

Not all unlike the sweet 
And gentle beauty of the lad we loved — 
Saw on his temple fair the marks which proved 
What agent had the tortured soul released, 
Tou may conceive ; — a grief that has not ceased 

To throb with painful beat 
Through every pulse of my afflicted heart, 
Though speeding months have striven to impart 
The solace which alone they can bestow. — 
For time must lighten e'en the heaviest woe, 

Though long indeed it be 
Ere it can fully heal so sore a pain ; 
And then how deep the scar that must remain ! 
To him, the father, with whose very life 
The boy's had been entwined, the fearful strife 



i 4 o THE LADY'S STORY. 

Of shame and misery 
"With which he looked upon the ruined youth 
Of one in whom he had the seeds of truth 
And honor striven earnestly to sow, 
With hope therefrom a harvest rich might grow, 

Proved for his strength too great. 
I stood beside him on that gloomy day 
We were to lay our precious dead away, 
While with such agony as love alone 
Like his, when turned to sorrow, e'er has 
known, 

He bared the face which late 
Had been so bright with every boyish grace — 
Gazed long — marked of the reckless life each 

trace — 
Grew white and whiter still — then, with a groan 
Of long-pent anguish, staggered and fell prone 

Beside the dead whose fate 
Left not one ray of hope to quench despair. 



THE LADY'S STORY. 141 

The heart which had ere this so much to bear 
Had broken 'neath the strain that at it tore — 
Beneath a chastisement so sad and sore. 

The fearful work was done ! 
With anguish such as words can never tell, 
I caught my stricken father as he fell, 
And to his couch the silent form we bore ; 
But vain were all our efforts to restore 

His reason to its throne ; 
He never spoke again ; no prayers could save, 
No efforts bring him back. Ere to the grave 
Our boy was borne, the last faint spark had 

flown, 
And I, bereft of all, was left alone — 

O God, all, all alone ! 
Alone to bury from my sight away, 
Of those I loved the precious, senseless clay !" 




THE EEYELATIOK 

I. 

S thus from lips grown white 

And tremulous the last words faintly 
fall 

In anguished murmurs, overwhelmed by all 
The recollections of that fearful day, 
The present moment seems to drift away, 

While to her narrowed sight 
Naught now remains except the bitter sense 
Of what in passing was with such intense, 
Such aggravating sorrow fraught to her, 
That to recall it scarce less painful were ; 
And in her trembling palm 



THE REVELATION. 143 

Again she bends her ashen grief-lined face 
With pain too deep for tears, while for a space 
The only sound that breaks the midnight hush 
Is that of dropping coals, the roar and rush 

Of winds not yet grown calm, 
And sighs that break from her o'erburdened 

heart, 
Still quiv'ring from the past's remembered smart ; 
While with new force, and all the old distress, 
Back swells the sense of her deep loneliness 

Without relief or balm, 
Or even hope that in the future years 
Some dear companionship for all her tears, 
And loneliness, and sorrow, now so great, 
Shall with its sweet rich fullness compensate, 

And make these days distressed, 
Yiewed through the past's dissolving vista, seem 
The strange dim changes of a troubled dream. 
While on his part the stranger, deeply moved 



i 4 4 THE REVELATION. 

By list'ning to a story which has proved 

More sad than he had guessed, 
With dimming eyes rests his averted gaze 
Upon the flick'ring points of amber blaze 
Which leap and glow within the well-filled grate, 
And o'er the lady's light form radiate, 

As with her hand still pressed 
Before her face, she strives for self-control 
Which, oft imperiled, yet has through the whole 
Of her pathetic story — all the pained 
[Remembrances awakened — been maintained 

With bravery sublime. 
At least so thinks the stranger, as his gaze 
Turns from the glint of leaping, golden blaze 
Within the grate, and on the lady's form, 
So slight, so frail, with admiration warm 

Rests silent for a time. 
While all his kindly heart is stirred anew 
To think that one so womanly and true, 



THE REVELATION. 145 

So tender, and so frail, though with a soiil 
Endowed with wondrous strength, and self-control, 

And sw r eetness unsurpassed, 
In her brief life should have endured so much 
Of pain and trial, then be left to such 
Intense and utter solitude as hers. 
And gazing thus, and thinking thus, there stirs 

A pity sweet and vast 
Within his heart for her who sits so near, 
Unwittingly appealing to each dear 
And sacred sympathy his life has known, 

By both the strength and weakness she has shown 

Within the hour just past. 
While with a man's most natural desire 
To shelter, with the strength whose force and fire 
Throbs consciously through every swelling vein, 
What so needs shielding, scarce can he restrain 

The impulse to enfold 
Within his arms the shrinking, girlish form, 



146 THE REVELATION. 

And with caresses fond, and words as warm, 
Soothe and beguile her grief, and ca/use to leap 
The light of smiles in eyes now shadowed deep. 

But this were far too bold, 
And though if 'twere his right it might be sweet 
To both, it now his object would defeat, 
Since 'twould alarm and add to the distress 
"Which he would fain assist her to repress. 

The impulse thus controlled 
Gives to his tone a subtle tenderness 
When he at length the silence breaks, and says : 
" Dear lady, sorrowful beyond compare 
Has been the story which not e'en to spare 

Yourself much present pain 
You've not refused to kindly give to one 
Who had no right to ask it, nor had done 
Had he surmised what were the cost to you 
% Of such a task. For kindliness so true 

He ever must remain 



THE REVELATION. 147 

Sincerely grateful. But, while he'd confess 

A wish he might that gratitude express 

In such a manner as it should impart 

Some grace of comfort to your sore tried heart, 

He's sadly conscious, too, 
The fact he was until this hour unknown 
Makes it impossible it should be shown 
In such a way as e'en a slight relief 
To give you in so deep and stern a grief. 

That it is not less true, 
Less strong or sympathetic pray believe, 
Though powerless soe'er to bring reprieve. 
Sad as your story in its details strange 
And pitiful has seemed to me, the change 

It in your life has wrought 
Is to my mind its very darkest phase. 
Although I feel assured the future days, 
While they can only mitigate your pain, 
Must give you sweet companionships again, 



148 



THE REVELATION. 



Fond care, and loving thought, 
To you the dearer for the present dearth 
Of loving friends around your lonely hearth." 



II. 



The lady lifts her head, 
And meeting thus the stranger's dusky eyes, 
Wherein so much of tender feeling lies, 
Smiles faintly, while the fluctuating rose 
Back to her grief -paled cheek so richly flows 

It deepens into red* 
" I would your prophecy were true," she says. 
" Scarce have I felt my utter loneliness 
So deeply as to-night since that dark day 
On which, alone, I laid my dead away, 

And with a sinking heart, 
A dread I could not master, from the tomb 
Turned drearily, and to this empty room 



THE R E VELA TION. 1 49 

Alone came back my sorry fate to face, 
And banish as I might from this lone place 

The ghosts which seemed to start 
From every chair, from every window deep, 
And from each statued alcove seemed to leap. 
Ghosts of the loved and lost so lately here ; 
Ghosts of the many hopes, so bright, so dear, 

Which made my girlhood glad ; — 
Hopes which, alas, if fair, so frail had proved, 
The reckless hand of one I fondly loved 
Had touched and shattered them, and naught 

remained 
But brilliant fragments, marred and darkly 
stained 

By mem'ries passing sad. 
I never shall forget how when the gloom 
Of twilight deepened in this silent room, 
I shiv'ring stood before the fireless grate, 
Of nothing conscious save the bitter fate 



ISO THE REVELATION. 

"Which left me thus alone. 
And all the nameless terrors it entailed, 
The which to overcome I strove and failed, — 
So utterly unstrung my nerves had been 
By all the trials which my life within 

The past few days had known. 
I started foolishly at every sound, 
While heart and pulse stood still, then with a 

bound 
So mad and strong it made me faint and weak, 
They fluttered on, while whiter grew my cheek 

And wilder still my fears. 
Each closing door without, each rattling blind, 
With terrors new filled my disordered mind ; 
The plaintive night wind's every sigh and moan 
Seemed but the echo of a human tone 

To my excited ears ; 
The gloom seemed peopled with a thousand 
forms, 



THE REVELATION. 151 

Unseen but felt, born of the hour's alarms ; 
Each smiling portrait seemed to me alive ; 
Each statue cold to move. I could not, strive 

As wildly as I might, 
Rise, as I said, above these terrors mad. 
Nor was it strange ; so various and sad 
Had been the trials which had followed fast 
Each on the other in the week just past, 

Until, on that wild night 
Which closed a day of such extreme distress, 
The ghosts of past and future seemed to press 
So closely 'round me I could nothing feel 
Except the fears I knew were so unreal 

They would not bear the light. 
The shocks repeated I had lately known 
It seemed to me had almost overthrown 
The reason whose appeals I could not hear 
In those wild hours of superstitious fear 

Which all so slowly passed. 



1^2 



THE REVELATION. 



The sense of my deep grief was vanquished quite 
By those imagined phantoms of the night ; 
And yet they were to me most real too. 
I scarce know how I lived the long hours 
through, 

Retaining to the last 
The consciousness I felt it were a boon 
To lose awhile, although recovered soon." 



III. 



" 'Twere marvellous indeed," 
The stranger answers, " that you should retain 
Your reason quite intact 'neath such a strain. 
It proves how much a young, strong heart can 

bear, 
Though 'shrined within a form so frail and fair ; 
And how, when sore our need 



THE REVELATION. 153 

God gives the strength, required to bear ns 

through 
The trials we would shrink from if we knew 
They were awaiting us, assured we ne'er 
Could bear so much of anguish or of fear. 

But while we pale, and shrink, 
And doubt ourselves, and doubt the Love that 

sends 
The griefs so hard to bear, that calls the friends 
We've fondly cherished, leaving us to know 
The pangs of loss that pierce and tear us so, 

He's forging, link by link, 
The chain of gold that draws us to His throne 
Where sorrow and bereavement are unknown ; 
And though to us the fierce refining fire, 
In which he fits the gold for uses higher 

Than we have dared to think, 
May seem severe, He knows how much 'twill 

bear, 

7* 



iS4 THE REVELATION. 

And how to form each link so strong and fair 

It shall endure to lift us to the place 

Where we may catch some glimpses of His face, 

And learn the purpose wise 
Of Him who kindled for our quiv'ring heart 
Such raging flames, though now the torturing 

smart, 
The fierce, sharp agony is all we feel — 
Forgetting thus He does the gold anneal. 

I would the truth that lies 
Beneath the thought so falt'ringly expressed, 
Might give your troubled heart the peace and 

rest 
Which you have plainly proved it sorely needs — 
The brightness which to utter gloom succeeds. 

But did the breaking day 
The phantons banish that had made the night 
Of which you speak one of such pain and fright 
It were a marvel you had lived it through, 



THE REVELATION. 155 

And kept your reason, and your hair's bright hue, 

Nor turned its bronze to grey ! — 
As many a head has turned in one brief night — 
As many a mind has lost its guiding light." 



IT. 



" When morning broke at length," 
She says, " in this deep chair where thro' the night 
I crouched in terror, longing for the light, 
I lay, unconscious of the breaking dawn 
Which bids the phantoms of the night be gone. 

For that fictitious strength 
Which had upheld me through those frightful 

hours 
Had utterly exhausted all its powers, 
And Sleep had wrapped me in her shelt'ring arms, 
And soothed to silence all the night's alarms. — 



156 THE REVELATION. 

Sweet sleep, God's greatest boon 
To suffering hearts which oft-times scarce could 

bear 
Their fearful weight of anguish or despair, 
But for the respite brief she gives to those 
"Who in her arms forget their fears and woes — 

Recalled, alas, too soon, 
But by the grace of strength she's sweetly given, 
Resumed with patience new, new faith in heaven, 
New courage all life's thorny ways to trace, 
And look the dreaded future in the face. 

And thus, to some extent, 
It was to me ; for when a brilliant ray 
Of sunlight througH yon casement crept to lay 
Its warm, bright fingers on my heavy eyes 
Which opened suddenly to wide surprise, 

I in bewilderment 
Around the lonely yet familiar room 



THE REVELATION. 157 

From which the morning sunshine chased the 

gloom 
That filled so darkly every niche and nook 
All through the night, gave one astonished look, 

And I recalled again 
The wild and foolish terror I'd endured, 
I almost smiled, so calmed and reassured 
My mind had been by Slumber's touches light, 
And morning's glad return so rich and bright. 

But while my o'er-wrought brain 
Its balance had regained, when I essayed 
To rise from this deep chair I found dismayed 
My wearied frame had not endured so well 
The long, hard strain, the sudden shocks that fell 

With such terrific force, 
So deep a blight upon my peaceful life 
Which had so little known of woe or strife. 
My temples throbbed with agonizing pain ; 
My limbs were stiff and aching ; every vein 



i S 8 THE REVELATION. 

Seemed drawing from its source 
A stream of liquid fire, which turned to ice 
And rippled slowly back, as with a vice 
To close congealing 'round my fluttering heart ; 
My throat was parched with thirst; my lips 

apart 

U 

And fevered with the breath 

Which hot and labored through its portals came ; 

My hands were cold as ice ; my cheeks aflame ; 

And as I strove to rise, and in my chair 

Fell fainting back and lay half conscious there, 

I did not know but Death, 
"Whose face of late had so familiar grown, 
"Was coming now to claim me for his own. 
If so, not all unwelcome would he be, 
For life not many charms now held for me, 

Robbed as it was of all 
The loves and hopes that make it dear and sweet, 
A boon to be desired. But from my seat 



THE REVELATION. 159 

I, chill and trembling, raised myself at length, 
And rally'ng all of my remaining strength, • 

Crept through the dusky hall, 
And up the stairs, and shiv'ring, faint, and weak, 
My own room reached at last. I scarce could 

speak, 
When, summoned by my ring, a servant came, 
Such rapid hold upon my feeble frame 

This illness had obtained. 
But measures prompt soon brought to me relief. 
Our good physician in his visits brief 
Discovered soon how urgent was my need 
Of both companionship and care indeed, 

And showed me how unfeigned 
His pity and compassion was for me 
In my sore strait, by seeking one to be 
A nurse not only, but a friend as well. 
My gratitude to him I ne'er can tell : 

Nor does a day go by 



160 THE REVELATION. 

But from my heart I bless him for the ways 
In which he showed me kindness in those days. 
He nothing said to me of his intent, 
But brought her with him ere I knew he meant 

My need to thus supply. 
A kindly woman, motherly and bright, 
Who brought to my dim chamber cheer and 

light; 
Whose gentle touch a soothing charm possessed ; 
Whose very presence gave a sense of rest 

I had not known of late. 
To me her kindness could not be surpassed ; 
And 'neath her constant care I rallied fast, 
Although 'twas long ere I had quite regained 
The strength for which the shocks I had 
sustained 

Had proved almost too great. 
And when at last the bloom of health returned, 
And life's warm tide thro' all my pulses burned, 



THE REVELATION. 161 

She thought to go, but was with ease prevailed 
Upon to tarry ; for she had not failed 

To see my utter need 
Of such companionship, and help, and care 
As she could give me ; so my earnest prayer 
Availed to keep her in my home so lone 
From which so much of joy and cheer had 
flown. 

I scarcely know indeed 
How I had borne to bide here still, amid 
The bitter, mournful memories that hid 
Between the leaves of each familiar book — 
That seemed from every painted face to look, 

And utterance to find 
From carven marble lips of statues cold — 
To lie emblazoned on the flaming gold 
Of crackling coals whereon I oft had read 
A story bright with hopes, now like the dead 

Round which they were entwined, 



i62 THE REVELATION. 

Cold, lifeless, crushed, and in the dust laid low, 
A joyous resurrection ne'er to know 
Till in the future life, by God's good grace, 
I shall with both once more stand face to face. 

I scarce had borne, I say, 
To dwell amid these ruins of my home 
Had she to cheer my solitude ne'er come. 
She has not left me either day or night, 
Till on this morn which dawned so gay and 
bright, 

A summons to obey 
From one whose need was greater than my own, 
She Y~ith reluctance left me here alone. 
I had not dreamed — nor she — a night so wild 
"Would close a day so lovely and so mild, 

Or she had answered nay, 
Though urgent was the message she received 
From one whom a refusal sore had grieved." 






THE REVELATION. 163 



V. 

w Pm truly glad to find," 

The stranger answers, " you've not been so lone 
As at the first seemed by your story shown ; 
But at the best for long to tarry here 
Would be a life too empty, cold, and drear 

For one so sweet and kind. 
Indeed, I trust it is not your intent 
To do so, save until such time be spent 
As shall suffice to choose a home once more 
"Whose charm and cheer shall glad you as of 
yore; 

For surely there are friends, 
Beloved and loving, who a welcome glad 
To heart and home would give to one so sad, 
So utterly alone, whose presence dear 
Could scarcely fail to add to all the cheer 



1 64 THE REVELATION. 

"Which such a home attends. 
I trust ere long that you will bid adieu 
To all the gloom and grief this scene keeps 

new." 
" Nay," she replies, " your hope I fear is vain. 
I look for nothing more than to remain 

As long as life endures 
Within these lonely and deserted halls, 
So haunted by the friends each nook recalls— 
The friends in taking whom God took my all, 
And left me to a fate which might appall 

A sterner heart than yours. 
'Tis true a welcome glad and kind indeed 
My mother's sister in my bitter need 
Would give me, with a sympathy as great, 
Were she but conscious of my lone estate ; 

But many a league of land, 
And many a stretch of ocean billow lies 
Between us two. '^Neath India's burning skies 



THE REVELATION. 165 

She dwells, at home ; a distance far too wide 
For me alone to traverse ; so I bide 

Here j where God's mighty hand 
Has placed me, with such measure of content 
As I may gain when pain at last is spent." 



VI. 

She pauses. For a time 
The stranger sits with thoughtful eyes bent 

down, 
And on his open brow a puzzled frown. 
The lady's case is worse than he had thought , 
And his too kindly heart, which has been taught 

A reverence sublime 
For womankind, by one he deems the best 
Of her sweet sex, sincerely is distressed 
At thought of turning coldly from the place 



166 THE REVELATION. 

"Where while the stormy night wears on apace 

He shelter finds, and rest, 
To leave alone through all the days to come, 
Within her stately but deserted home, 
One who, a stranger truly, and no claim 
Possessing on his kindness save what came 

At sympathy's behest, 
And what her youth, and sex, and lonely plight 
Had given her — which she might urge by right 
Of commonest humanity indeed — 
A right which none more freely would concede — 

Yet who has so appealed 
To his compassion and his sympathies 
By artlessly relating — and at his 
So urgent wish — the story of the wrong 
And sorrow of the past, an int'rest strong, 

And only half concealed, 
He can but feel for one who all has faced 
So bravely, with a wish to see her placed 



THE REVELATION. 167 

More happily ere lie shall say adieu, 
His interrupted journey to pursue. 

At length he lifts his eyes 
"Which seek onee more the lady's gentle face : 
" And are there then no others who the grace 
Of shelter and of welcome to a friend 
So sorrowfully placed would glad extend ? " 

He asks with pained surprise. 
She answers sadly : " Nay, not one ! aside 
From her to whom I have referred, the wide 
Cold world holds none on whom I have a claim 
However slight ; none of my race or name 

Are left to me, save her. 
So poor am I in friends ! " she adds with faint 
Sad smile more pitiful than any plaint. 
" But he — your father's brother ! " he suggests. 
" Unless a heart of stone his breast invests, 

He surely would confer 
On one, like you, of his own blood and name, 



1 



i68 THE REVELATION. 

And innocent alike of wrong or blame, 
The shelter and protection yon so need, 
A welcome giving both in word and deed. 

Or has grim-visaged Death 
Borne him as well to yonder shad'wy shore, 
To meet the brother he had wronged of yore i" 
The faint flush deepens on the lady's cheek, 
As in reply she opes her lips to speak 

With slightly quickened breath. 
" Nay, I believe," she says, " he's living yet ; 
But I from him whom I have never met 
A boon so great as that could scarcely claim, 
However bound to him by blood and name. 

Indeed, I little know 
Of him, or his, except the bitter fact 
That one I loved was by his treach'rous act 
From home and kindred banished, and his life 
So wrecked thereby it gave his gentle wife 

A harsh and fatal blow 



THE REVELATION. 169 

Which made me motherless when but a child. 
I could not stoop to ask of him who spoiled 
My father's life, a shelter for my own." 
The high uplifted head, the haughty tone, 

The scornful little smile 
With which she closes, plainly speak the pride 
Which in her parent's conduct she decried ; 
And prove howe'er she may regret or blame 
Their folly, of the same proud race she came. 

The stranger notes meanwhile 
The haughty words and smile, and haughtier 

tone, 
While his amusement in his face is shown. 
But in a moment she has added low : 
" I cherish no resentment, for I know 

So little of those days 

I cannot judge if there was actual wrong, 

Or but misfortune in what proved a long 

And bitter grief to one. But though 'twere true 
8 



170 THE REVELATION. 



No injury was meant, and though I knew 

On me the utmost grace 
Of kindness and of welcome he'd bestow, 



I still could never seek it, you must know. 
I think he gave the only son that came 
To bless their union my dear father's name. 

The which, if true, displays 
A kindliness to him who once was dear, 
Which argues an affection still sincere." 



TIL 

The stranger with a start 
Bends on the lady's face an eager look, 
Akin to that one gives a well-known book 
"Which though familiar ne'er has been perused, 
x Whose every page has now become suffused 

With meaning to his heart. 



THE RE VELA TION. 1 7 1 

Each feature's chiselling bis gaze delays, 
Then on the portraits smiling in the blaze 
Of clustered lights he turns his curious eyes 
Where slowly dawns a subtle sweet surprise, 

A hope but half defined, — 
A hope so new and bright, a hope so sweet 
It quickens every pulse to fuller beat — 
So sweet he scarce dares put it to the touch 
Lest it should vanish. Yet he wonders much 

That he has been so blind, 
As with his eyes again bent on the floor 
Her story point by point he now goes o'er. 
So for a time he silent doth remain ; 
Then to her face his gaze he lifts again, 

And with a bright, glad smile 
Which she remarking scarce can understand, 
Draws forth a card and lays it in her hand, 
And softly says — " Permit me ! " With surprise 
The lady drops thereon her wond'ring eyes, 



172 THE REVELATION. 

The stranger all the while 
Her sweet face watching with his curious gaze, 
To see surprise give place to blind amaze, 
As 'graved thereon she reads one glowing line, — 
Just — " Stuart Marjoram" in letters fine. 

Her lips unclose at last : 
"What means this, sir? This is my father's 

name ! " 
She trembling says. " Yes ? And my own's the 

same. 
Dear lady, we are cousins ! " he replies, 
The sweet, glad smile still ling'ring in his eyes. 

" A story of the past 
Uot all unlike the one which you have told, 
In many points, I might to you unfold 
If it were needed to make good my claim 
To your dear father's loved and honored name. 

The card within vour hand 
I trust is proof convincing to your mind 



THE REVELATION. 173 

That strongest ties of blood and kinship bind 

Us two together ; otherwise I scarce 

Had even heard ere now the name it bears. 

I cannot understand 
How I have been so stupid as to hear 
From first to last your story, and my ear 
Remain so dull — ay more ! so wholly sealed 
To that one fact which every word revealed. 

A story I have known 
In many of its details from my youth ; 
And therefore can assure you of the truth 
And honor of that brother whose whole life 
Has been o'ershadowed by the hour of strife 

Which parted him from one 
Who till that fatal day had been his best, 
His dearest friend ; while he had never guessed 
That they were rivals for the same dear hand. 
And so be sure, sweet cousin, such demand 

As you may c stoop ' to make 



i 7 4 THE REVELATION. 

Of him for welcome and affection kind, 
In fullest measure granted you will find. 
Ad-interim, I beg you will extend 
To me, no more a stranger, hut a friend 
For whose unworthy sake 
You've been the long night through of rest de- 
barred, 
The added grace of cousinly regard." 



Yin. 

Bewildered with surprise 
"Which o'er each feature eloquently plays ; 
Half comprehending all the stranger says ; 
Half doubting what he smilingly assumes ; 
Half shrinking when in closing he presumes 

To take the hand that lies 
So passively upon her knee, she sits 



THE REVELATION. 175 

In wond'ring silence, while a soft thrill flits 
Along the throbbing sluices of her heart, 
To feel the hope that he would fain impart 

Increase in force and strength, 
As slowly dawns in her bewildered mind 
A consciousness of what 'twould be to find 
In one who seems so noble, kind and true, 
A friend not only, but a kinsman too ; 

And she perceives at length 
How strong the case which he has proven shows, 
How little room for doubt the facts disclose. 
And so she says at last : " Can it be true ? 
It seems scarce possible ! Ah, would I knew ! — 

And yet — if 'twere not so — 
How could you have my father's very name, 
Which by this bit of pasteboard you would 

claim ?" 
The stranger smiles: "Sweet doubter, it is 
true — 



176 THE REVELATION. 

j 

All I have said. Those eyes of chestnut hue 
' "Which in yon portrait glow, 

Are but the counterpart in look and smile 
Of eyes whose gentle glance so free from guile 
I all my life have known ; that firm, square chin, 
That mouth reserved and proud which closes in 

The secrets of the heart, 
Are all familiar as my father's own. 
I do not need to ask whose face is shown 
Upon that square of canvas ; nor surmise 
"Where you obtained the bronze hue of your eyes, 

The proud curves that impart 
So much of character to lips of rose, 
And break the softness' of your mouth's repose. 
Dear Cousin, will you still reject the friend 
And kinsman who before you low would bend, 

And sue for that regard 
Which howso'er unworthy he would claim 
At least by virtue of his blood and name ?" 



THE REVELATION. 177 

" Nay — I can doubt no more !" she softly says. 
" Tou prove your title in too many ways. 

Nor is it very hard 
To credit what will be to me, if true, 
Of greater moment then it can to yon. 
So since the past is past, and you have come 
To seek me in my own far-distant home — 

Howe'er unwittingly — 
And since so humbly, and so kindly too, 
For the great boon of my regard you sue, 
I can no more your earnest plea resist. 
Your claims I own, your proofs I gladly list. 

Kind cousin, now from me 
Accept a cordial welcome to my home, 
Whither by force of adverse winds you come." 
The while a playful smile lights up her face, 
She with a gesture of bewitching grace 

Both little hands extends, 

To ratify the welcome she has given, 
8* 



178 THE REVELATION. 

The kinship which to prove he so has striven. 
He takes the soft white hands ; he murmurs low : 
" Ah, thanks ! by this sweet token then I know 

We cousins are, and friends. 
Said I not right," he adds with bright arch 

smile, 
" That Fate had led me many a weary mile, 
Through night and storm, thro' perils great and 

drear, 
O'er field and flood, at last to bring me — here ? 

Or rather I would say 
That God's kind hand all thro' the bleak, wild 

night 
Has been my guide, has pointed me aright, 
And through the darkness and the driving storm 
Has led me hither to your fireside warm, 

That ere the breaking day 
Shall flush the pale face of the east with red, 
We two might find the tiny, silken thread 



THE RE VELA TION. 



179 



Which leading from my book of life to yours, 
Of kinship and of friendship warm assures. 

May it ne'er break, I pray, 
Till death to sever it at length shall come, 
And we take up the threads in God's dear 
home !" 




- 



MOEXIXG. 




O breaks the morn at last ! 

And standing in the twilight cold and 

g re 7 ? 
Between the crimson curtains drawn away 

From yonder casement wide, the cousins gaze 

Upon the fairy scene the dawn displays, 

As, creeping bright and fast 
Above the eastern hills, she throws a flood 
Of rosy light on mountain, field, and wood, 
O'er which the last hours of the stormy night 
Have dropped a mantle fleecy soft and white. 

The scene is passing fair ! 



MORNING. 181 

The sweeping avenue arched o'er with trees 
Which, stirring gently in the morning breeze, 
Sift soft a show'r of down their branches 

through ; 
While through the narr'wing vista one may view 

A picture bright as rare : 
A long, wide stretch of meadow spread with 

snow, 
Touched in the distance with the dawn's red 

glow ; 
Beyond, a village, with its gables quaint, 
Its pointed spires, its smoke-wreaths blue and 

faint 

Against a sky of rose, 
Lies nestled at yon lofty mountain's base 
Whose parti-colored robes have given place 
Since evening fell to one of downy white, 
Which hides the ravages the stormy night 

Has, ruthless, wrought on those ; 



1 82 MORNING. 

While in the distance, farther, farther still, 
Beyond the sweep of meadow, hamlet, hill, 
All gleam and glitter, all one golden blaze, 
As strike thereon the rising sun's first rays, 
Swells the blue, tossing sea — 
Heaving with fury of the tempest born — 
Still angry, though the soft voice of the Morn 
Would fain speak peace, and hush its wrath to 

sleep — 
Still restless, though the wild winds silence 

keep — 

Still leaping high and free, 
And tossing in the air the gleaming spray 
With which the dancing sunbeams seem at play — 
All set within the arch of meeting trees, 
A frame that shifts with every shifting breeze. 

That in the background gay. 
And in the fore the mansion's well-kept 

grounds ; 



MORNING. 183 

Like frosted loaves their heaped-up flower 

mounds ; 
Like frescoed arabesques picked out with white 
Each tree, and vine, and shrub, whose trac'ries 

light 

Against the pale sky play ; 
Each ivied urn has donned a snowy hood ; 
Each woodland nymph that 'mid the shubb'ry 

stood ^ 
Has caught the falling mantle on her arms, 
In vain attempt to hide therein her charms 
Which, spite of all her cares, 
Break thro' the filmy dress and stand revealed, 
Too fair to be by any robe concealed ; 
Each rustic arbor, each rose-trellis frail, 
Has been roofed in with white ; a snowy veil 

Each silent fountain wears ; 
The brilliant, dying leaves the wind had piled 
In cosy nooks ere came the tempest wild, 



1 84 MORNING. 

Have snugly been tucked up beneath the warm 
And downy robe dropped by the fleeing storm ; 

And as the sun mounts higher, 
And over sea and mountain hither comes, 
Veiled fount, and nymph, and snow-decked arbor 

domes, 
Tree, shrub, and frosted mound, and hooded urn, 
Touched by its dazzling radiance seem to burn 

With points of living fire, 
Until the whole wide picture is aglow, 
And lovelier than any words can show. 



II. 

Since the new day awoke 
And thrust its " rosy fingers " thro' the blind 
To beckon them who, woud'ring still to find 
They never had been strangers, lingered on 



MORNING, 185 

Beside the waning fire till niglit was gone, 

And the bright morn bespoke 
Their notice of her blushing charms, the two 
Have stood beside the window wide, to view 
The transformation which the coming sun 
Is working on a scene as fair as one 

Need seek to feast the sight. 
" Ah, see ! " he says, as with surprise his gaze 
Falls on the snow flushed with the first red rays 
Of coming day. " Ah, see ! while we, within, 
Have from the vanished past essayed to win 

A hope both sweet and bright, 
To pierce and gild the haze that floats about 
The fateful, unknown future, Time, without, 
At one grand stride — light-footed, shod with 

list- 
Has stepped from Autumn's gold and purple mist, 

Deep into Winter's snows. 
Is it but winged hours have flown away 



186 MORNING. 

Since for a shelter I presumed to pray ? 

Or have the speeding months rolled on apace 

Since first I looked upon your gentle face 

In which all sweetness glows, 
And brought us deep into another year, 
While we have sat in pleasant converse here ? " 
" One well might fancy," smiling she replies, 
" It were the last : that Time, who ever flies 

So swiftly — save to those 
Of heavy heart — had gained new impetus, 
And in his rapid flight had wafted us 
Unconscious, past the old and dying year, 
And dropped us in the new, with all its dear 

And tender hopes and dreams — 
So changed this scene since darkness softly fell 
And in its dusky garments wrapped it well ; 
So much of import closely folded lay 
Between the midnight and the dawning day ; 

So bright the rosy beams 



MORNING. I87 

Which morning throws across the shadowed way 
In which I walked ere came the evening grey. 
I scarce can think a few fleet hours alone 
Lie 'twixt the days of sadness I have known, 

Days empty, hopeless, drear, 
And this, which brings to me a friend, endeared 
By ties of race and name, and those revered 
Associations of a sacred past 
Bequeathed by them who suffered, loved, and 
passed 

From both, into the near 
Yet unknown future, where the loves and hates 
This strange and checkered life of ours creates, 
Shall be resolved into the perfect joy 
Whose constancy and sweetness cannot cloy. — 

A friend who brings to me 
The cheer not only of his interest kind, 
But promises so much beside, I find 



188 MORNING. 

My heart grows buoyant 'neath the brighter 

hopes 
He kindly would impart, the view he opes 

Of days that are to be. 
So terrible it is to be so lone ! 
So sweet the ties of kin once more to own 1" 
The man stoops low, and with his bearded lips 
He touches rev'rently the finger tips 

That, soft and rosy, lie 
Upon the dark and polished window seat ; 
The while his heart throbs with a quickened beat, 
And his dark eyes with sudden moisture dim, 
To hear such gracious words addressed to him 

From lips so proud and shy. 
And as he lifts his head, and meets the eyes 
In whose bronze depths a faint amazement lies, 
He smiles, and softly says : " Dear Marguerite, 
Not to you only is this new bond sweet, 

Nor chiefly ; for to me 



MORNING. 189 

It is the dear fulfillment of a dream 

Which filled my heart in boyhood with supreme 

And earnest longing naught could satisfy. 

In kindred scarce more rich than yon ; too shy — 

Too proud, perhaps, to flee 
To other homes for such companionships 
As mine was wanting in, when from the lips 
Of my dear mother I the story heard 
Which you have told me, my young heart was 

stirred 

With deep delight to know 
The world held those who by a tie so near 
Were bound to me, though from us, once so 

dear, 
They long had been estranged, and dwelt afar, 
But not e'en this my pleasure keen could mar ; 

And thenceforth all the glow 
Of boyhood's dreams converged its brilliant 

rays 



i 9 o MORNING. 

Around those unknown friends, who thro' the 

haze 
Of romance viewed, seemed dear beyond com- 
pare. 
So 'twere not strange I scarcely could forbear 

A strong desire to seek 
And know them who by bonds so strong were 

bound 
To me and mine. So dwelt my fancies round 
The loved unknown for many a day ; — till one 
Who had, like you, by death been left alone, 

Came to us to bespeak 
That tenderness and care her youth required, 
And brought to me what I had long desired — 
A sister's love and dear companionship, 
And filled the want, which seldom on my 
lip, 

Dwelt ever in my heart. 
And now, the dream which vanished long ago 



MORNING. i 9 i 



Becomes a dear reality ! And so, 

Sweet cousin, you perceive the gain to you 

"Which in this just discovered tie you view, 

Finds its full counterpart 
In that the kinship new confers on him 
Who sees fulfilled thereby dreams long grown 
dim." 



The morn advances fast ! 
The sun has crept high up amid the blue ; 
The fleecy robe the flying tempest threw 
On meadow, mansion, mountain, woodland gay, 
Has by the warm hands of the god of day 

Been gathered up, and cast 
111 diamond drops upon the frosty earth, 
Thus working on the scene since morning's birth 



i 9 2 MORNING. 

Another change as speedy as the first — 
Almost as wondrous, too, as that which burst 

On their astonished sight 
"When Day revealed the work the night had 

wrought 
Swiftly and still as is the flight of thought. 
And yet, in shady nooks cool hands have clung 
To the fair robe which o'er them had been flung, 

And which the sun-god bright, 
However ardent be his touch, and bold, 
Not yet has wrested from their clinging hold. 
Before the door, where as the midnight rang, 
His courser's hoofs had ceased their startling 

clang, 

And he in eager tones 
Besought a shelter from the driving storm, 
To find within a fireside bright and warm, 
The stranger sits upon his prancing steed, 
The farewell halting on his lips indeed, 



MORNING. 193 

While in his heart he owns 
A strange reluctance from the mansion grey 
If only for a time, to turn away. 
And she who gave him welcome to her home, 
And found, surprised, ere the new day had 
come, 

That she had entertained, 
Though unawares, a kinsman and a friend, 
Who should new hope into her sad life send, 
Now standing in the porch, her parting guest 
To speed with kindest wishes, unconfessed 

E'en to herself, a pained 
And scarce defined regret stirs in her heart 
To say farewell, and see her guest depart. 
The morning breeze plays with her sable 

dress, 
And brushes her fair cheek with light caress, 

A deeper -rose to' impart; 

The sun's soft glory all about her lies ; 
9 



i 9 4 MORNING. 

Her hands, uplifted, shade her dazzled eyes 
From its too ardent rays ; a soft, sweet smile 
Around her proud lips lingers, though the 

while 

Regret is in her heart ; 
The rich brown braids that crown her queenly 

head, 
No longer bronze, are rippled gold instead, 
As tenderly thereon the sunlight lays 
The warmth and brilliance of its gathered 

rays; 

And as, unconscious quite 
How fair the picture she is making shows 
To him who his departure still foregoes, 
She on the topmost step stands, in the sheen 
With which the perfect morning floods the 

scene, 

His dark eyes fill with light — 
He gazes long as though he would imprint 



MORNING. 195 

Upon his heart each feature, outline, tint 

Which marks the picture where his glances 
rest. 

Then with regret in one long sigh expressed, 
Seeks his adieus to frame. 

a Once more farewell ! farewell, dear Margue- 
rite ! " 

He says in tones with tenderness made sweet. 

"Bide here, content, one brief month, till I 
come 

And take you with me to my own dear home, 

Where, though you ' stoop ' to claim 

A shelter and a welcome, or forbear, 

It shall be yours, and in no niggard share. 

And meanwhile in your dreams of future days, 

O'er which sweet Hope shall shed her brightest 
rays, 

And coming joy foretell, 

May your unworthy cousin find a place ! 



196 MORNING. 

I go ! but take with me your dear, sweet face. 
God have you in His keeping till I come, 
And let no harmful thing approach your 
home ! 

Again farewell— -farewell /" 
With one long glance upon the lady's face, 
One last, slow smile, full of a tender grace, 
He lifts his cap — low in his saddle bends — 
Then slowly wheels — and slowly onward wends. 

Down the long avenue 
His steed's hoofs ring. Between the arching 

trees 
That sigh and flutter in the morning breeze, 
She sees him pass — regarding him with eyes 
"Wherein the smile of pleasure slowly dies 

As he is lost to view. 
With ear intent she lists ^ach hoof-beat's 

fall, 
The silence closing 'round her like a pall 



MORNING. 197 

As dies the last. Stands wrapt in rev'ry long. 
A bird trills out a tardy morning song 
Upswinging to the blue. 
She starts — looks up — the morn is wearing 

on — 
A door shuts softly — and she too is gone. 





CHMSTAIAS-TEDE. 




AUK to the pealing bells * 

Upon the frosty air, from far and 
near. 



IMiiirs out their merry chiming sharp and clear, 
An er hill and plain, 

-He the glad echoes ch ft refrain, 

1 hi isti n can b 9 wonderful and sweet 
heart bnt throbs with richer beat, 

thought flows backward to that wondrous 

night 
When, heralded by songs of angels bright, 



CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 



199 






Our glorious King was born. 
"Peace on the earth, good will, good will to 

men !" 
Far sweeter rings the anthem now than then, 
As, borne upon the clear voice of the bells, 
Down through the ages still the glad song swells 

Triumphant over scorn. 
For in the heart of millions, sweet and strong, 
Is echoed now the wonderful new song 
Which on that night two thousand years ago 
O'er sleeping BethPhem floated, soft and slow, 

Up from Rephaim borne. 
" Peace on the earth, good will, good will to 

men !" 
Joy through the carol swelled and throbbed e'en 

then, 
When on the bright hush of the eastern night 
The glad refrain first rung, as poised in flight 

The angel chorus sang ; 

/ 



200 CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 

But deeper notes of joy and triumph swell 
Through the sweet song, the tidings which to 

tell 
The bright choir came, as o'er the whole wide 

earth 
Thrilled with the meaning of that wondrous 

birth, 

Today the anthem rang. 
" Peace on the earth, good will, good will to 

men, 
For Christ the Lord is born in Bethlehem !" 

II. 

As peal on peal the bells 
Ring out the Christmas chimes from yonder 

tower, 
Swift through the village street the self-same 

hour, 



CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 201 

O'er the smooth, shining track of trodden snow 
A light sleigh glides. Its fleet steeds swifter go 

As the rich music swells 
Upon the frosty air, and drowns the chime 
Of bells which with the deeper tones keep time 
As faster on they fly, till far behind 
The sounding peal is left. The winter wind 

Sighs through the tree-tops bare, 
And on strong wings sv/eeps downward with^ a 

rush, 
Till two fair cheeks beneath its cold breath flush 
"With a deep glow that suits their roundness 

well; 

While two dark eyes which on the roses dwell, 

No admiration spare ; 

And bending nearer, round a slender form 

A strong hand closer tucks the wrappings warm 

To shield it from the rude touch of the breeze 

Which, swooping lower, tears them off with ease, 
9* 



202 CHRIS TMAS- TIDE. 

And laughs at all his care. 
Then up and off the wild wind sweeps once 

more, 
And through the tree-tops with majestic roar 
Flies swiftly eastward, on its mighty wings 
To bear afar the joyous news that rings 

From every tall church tower. 
Deep in the azure ether Night's fair queen 
Reclines at ease, and with a grace serene 
Looks down upon our little world, till lo, 
It blooms and sparkles with a silver glow 

Beneath her bright smile's power. 
And far, and near, swept by the soft moonlight, 
Piled drift on drift, the gleaming snow lies 
white. 



CHRISTMAS' TIDE. 203 



III. 



Since climbed the morning sun 
From out the blue depths of the throbbing sea, 
Up tow'rd the zenith's azure soaring free, 
The two — fair Marguerite, and he who came 
One stormy night her fireside's cheer to claim, 

And gracious welcome won, — 
In warm furs wrapped, swift o'er the gleaming 

road 
Which lies between her desolate abode 
And his proud home, by fleet steeds have been 

borne, 
Till into night the frosty day has worn, 

And the last mile is passed. 
For as the bells' sweet chiming dies away — 
Left in the distance — from the broad highway, 



CHR1STMA S- TIDE. 

Through sheltered lane, o'er hillock's rugged 

ridge, 
Through clanging gate, and park, o'er rustic 

bridge, 

To snow-swept drive borne fas:. 
They come, they come ! And now before their 

gilt 
Looms up the mansion in the pale moon's light, 
And in a moment close before the door 
The neighing steeds have paused — the joum 
o ? er. 

And home is reached at last. 
The panting horses, with one final shake 
Of bells whose tinkles softest echoes wake, 
St and silent on the drive ; the light breeze stirs 
Among the spiny branches of the firs 

"Which deep black shadows trace 
Upon the moonlit whiteness of the snow; 
The mansion's everv window is aglow 



CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 205 

The man the ribbons flinging from his hands 
Leaps from the sleigh, beside the lady stands 

With bright and smiling face, 
And hands extended as he murmurs low : 
" Sweet cousin, welcome home P The warm 

rich glow 
The winter wind had painted on her cheeks, 
Dies out in pallor which more plainly speaks 

Than any words could do, 
The shrinking she still feels at meeting those 
"Who utter strangers are, however close 
The ties of blood which each to each may bind, 
And claiming at their hands a welcome kind. 

He marks the pallid hue 
"Which chases from her cheeks the color bright, 
As o'er them streams from open door the light, 
And as he lifts her gently from the sleigh, 
He bends above her tenderly to say : 

" My peerless Marguerite, 



2o6 CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 

This is your home ; call back the roses fled 
From these fair cheeks ; there's nothing, dear, to 

dread, 
This is your home ; and liere home's utmost 

cheer 
Shall soon dispel your every doubt and fear. 

So welcome, cousin sweet ! 
Fond care and love beyond that open door 
Wait to surround and guard you evermore." 
He takes her hand, which flutters in his hold 
Like frightened bird in hand of hunter bold ; 
And leads her, trembling, pale, 
Up the broad steps of his palatial home, 
And through the open door whence streaming 

come 
The brilliant lights that speak of warmth and 

cheer, 
Suggesting welcome loving and sincere. 
The lilies still prevail 



CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 207 

Upon her cheek, as o'er the threshold wide, 
Her hand in his, the two step, side by side. 



IT. 

A broad and lofty hall ! 
Its marble floor, except for rugs, left bare ; 
Ascending either side a winding stair ; 
At farther end a fireplace wide and deep 
Piled high with logs round which the red flames 
leap 

Half way to mantel tall ; 
The blue-tiled hearth clean-swept with tidy care ; 
The wall hung close with pictures old and rare ; 
Broad, oak-framed sofas; carven chairs with 

arms 
Spread wide to tempt a trial of their charms ; 

Low footstools placed before ; 



208 CHRISTMAS' TIDE. 

Dark, Christmas holly gleaming everywhere — 
Festooned above each picture, doorway, chair- 
From frieze to lighted candelabra looped ; 
And at the nearer end three persons grouped. 

All this the open door 
Gives up to view, as o'er the threshold wide, 
Her hand in his, the two step, side by side. 



T. 



One moment, while she stands 
Half blinded by the dazzling flow of light, 
All objects mingling to her 'wildered sight ; 
"While her companion to the greeting fond 
Each gives in turn doth joyously respond ; 

And then he takes her hands, 
And with a word presents her to the friends 



CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 209 

Around her grouped. One questioning glance 

she bends 
Upon the faces near lit up with smiles 
Whose kindliness each ling'ring doubt beguiles, 

Then words of welcome sweet 
JFall on her ears, while two soft arms are prest 
Around her close ; by soft lips are caressed 
Brow, cheek, and mouth ; and she looks up with 

sighs 
Of sweet content, the glance of loving eyes 

Soft, dark, and deep to meet, 
While 'neath their smiles the past hour's vague 

alarm 
Dissolves like frost beneath the sunlight warm. 
How kind, and sweet, and motherly the face 
Of her who holds her in that close embrace 

A welcome warm to 5 impart ! 
What wonder they had loved her passing well — 



2io Christmas-tide, 

The two who wooed her in her youth ! that 

fell 
Had been the blow to one when first he learned 
The love he gave in kind was unreturned ! 

What wonder in his heart 
Her lovely image lingered long and sweet, 
Though deep the pain that through each mem'ry 

beat ! 
So thinking, stands content within the arm 
Enfolding her, succumbing to the charm 

That motherly embrace 
Possesses for her lonely orphan heart ; 
The while her late companion stands apart, 
Regarding both with smiles, well pleased to 

mark 
The light that fills his mother's eyes so dark, 

The new bloom in the face 
Of her who from this meeting shrank with dread 
"Which deeper grew with every hour that sped. 



CHRISTMAS' TIDE. 2 1 1 

A moment standing thus a voice she hears 
Whose deep low tones hold something to her 
ears 

Which speaks of other days, 
And she looks up to see a noble face 
So like her father's in each manly grace 
The quick tears start unbidden to her eyes ; 
And then her hand within his warm grasp lies, 

Her head is on his breast ; 
And while he pushes from her forehead fair 
The soft and drooping bands of gold-brown hair, 
He says with trembling, half -familiar tone, 
His eyes the while as dim as are her own 

As on her face they rest — 
" And you are Stuart's daughter ! Ah, my dear, 
Believe me you are more than welcome here, 
And that no other hither could have come 
To be 80 welcome both to heart and home ; 

God bless my brother's child ! 



212 CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 

This is a joy I had not thought to know. 
God make you happy with us !" Broken, low, 
The old man's tones become, and plainly show 
How deep regret has dwelt his calm below ; 

How to be reconciled 
To that dear brother once so fondly loved 
His heart has longed through what indeed has 

proved 
A life-long separation. — From his arm 
Released at last, she turns to meet the warm 

And cordial kiss of one 
She till this moment scarcely has perceived — 
A lady young and fair, whose lips a grieved 
Sad droop possess which shows beneath the 

smile 
That, sweet and cordial, round them plays the 

while 

She greeting speaks. The sun 
That turns whate'er it shines upon to gold 



CHRISTMAS- TIDE. 2 1 3 

Ic scarce more bright than are the tresses rolled 
Away from that low brow so fair and white ; 
Eyes like forget-me-nots, whose tender light 

Seems almost quenched in dew ; 
And cheeks whose rose and roundness show that 

youth 
And perfect health are hers. She is in truth 
Most wondrous fair ; and yet her flow'r-like face 
Of some great pain or passion holds the trace, 

Awaking in each true 
And noble heart a strange deep tenderness 
For her whose grief they scarcely more than 

guess. 



YL 

As warm upon her cheek 
The lady's greeting kiss falls, Marguerite 



2i 4 CHRISTMAS' TIDE. 

Still half bewildered gazes on the sweet 

And smiling face, perplexed her name to guess — 

Forgetting her who in her loneliness 

Had hither come, to seek 
The loving care she since that day had known 
"When, but a child, Death left her all alone. 
Such wonderment her puzzled face betrays, 
Her cousin, stepping nearer, smiling says : 

" This, Marguerite, is she, 
The sister, who I told you came to fill 
The longing — which till then was never still — 
For such companionship as many a home 
Is rich in, but to mine had never come 

Till came my Rose to me. 
To-day gives us another flower sweet, 
A fragrant, brown-eyed daisy, Marguerite ! 
But, lest the frost should blight its dainty charm, ' 
I'll place it at yon fireside bright and warm, 

Until its heart expands 



CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 215 

Beneath the genial glow that flame emits. 55 
As thus he playful speaks a bright smile flits 
Across her f ace 9 while to the blazing fire 
He leads her, wheels a deep chair nigher, 

And seats her there. Soft hands 
With gentle touch her wrappings thick remove ; 
The eyes that meet her own are full of love ; 
Each hovers near her with assiduous care ; 
And leaning in the soft depths of her chair 

. While round her gently creeps 
The genial glow and warmth — a sense of all 
The kindness that surrounds her, that deep pall 
Of sorrow which in many a heavy fold 
Has wrapped her for so long, now all unrolled, 

Slips off : — her free heart leaps 
With grateful joy — her face is all aglow — 
" Ah, this is home, and rest ! 55 she murmurs low. 



LOYE. 



HE blush and bloom of May ! 

O'erhead a sky one stretch of lovely 
blue; 

Far in the west soft clouds of roseate hue ; 
Beneath the feet a sward from whose rich green 
Sweet blue-eyed violets peeping may be seen ; 

On either side the way 
Trees garlanded to topmost bough with bloom, 
The pink lips breathing forth a soft perfume 
Upon the atmosphere now burdened deep 
With mingled odors which the sunbeams steep 
In golden warmth and light, 



LOVE. 217 

Till all the air the essence is of balm, 



A ? 



Pure, grateful, soft, warm, odorous, and calm. 
To breathe it in intoxicates the sense 
With pleasure thrilling, subtle, and intense, 

An undefined delight. 
Upon the em'rald sward th # e witching play 
Of gold-haired sunbeams with the shadows grey ; 
And swinging high, and flitting low and near, 
Forth pouring music ravishing and clear, 

Glad birds in plumage bright, 
Fresh from their journey from that sunny land 
Where all the year the winds blow soft and 
bland. 

H. 

Beneath the blooming boughs 

Which send their luscious perfume far and wide. 

Two steeds of dapple-grey pace side by side ; 
10 



218 LOVE. 

Their slow steps crushing mid the velvet green 
The blue-eyed violets smiling there unseen. 

Whose dying breath endows 
With deeper fragrance all the ambient air. 
Living or dying sweet beyond compare — 
These lovely flow'rs crushed by the feet that go 
Unheeding, with a steady step and slow 

On through the shadowed lane. 
The one horse proudly bears a lady fair 
Whose cheeks a pink like yonder peach-bloom 

wear ; 
Whose downcast eyes no single glance permit ; 
Whose face is with a mystic brightness lit, 

And keeps no trace of pain. 
Two small gloved hands the bridle lightly hold ; 
Around her flowing, sable fold on fold, 
Her heavy dress sweeps almost to the ground ; 
,Her hat's long plume her flushed face floats 
around, 



LOVE. 219 

Its fair tints to enhance. 
In swaying form, in half -averted face. 
In heaving bosom, quickened breath, we trace 
A subtle consciousness that tells a tale 
Whose blissful meaning one can scarcely fail 

To gather at a glance. 
Life's May has come, all beauty, blush, perfume, 
And her awakened heart bursts into bloom ! 
Upon the other horse, her good steed's mate, 
A man with form erect, and face elate, 

Eides, closely at her side. 
His bridl lies upon his horse's neck ; 
His hand is on the lady's rein to check 
Her pace to match his own ; a tender smile 
Is on his lips ; his dark eyes rest the while 

Upon the crimson tide 
That mantles in the face he deems so sweet ; 
His heart is throbbing with impassioned beat ; 



J 



2 20 LOVE. 

His cheek is flushed; his breath breaks up in 

sighs ; 
While deeper, darker, softer grow the eyes 

Which dwell upon her face. 
His whole man's nature is intensely stirred ; 
But still he breaks the silence by no word ; 
And still the two in blissful peace remain, 
As softly through the velvet, flow'r-strewn lane 

They slowly onward pace. 
What hour to come can be so sweet as this — 
So full of subtle, all-pervading bliss ! 
What speech so tender that it would not jar 
Upon a joy a breath will sometimes mar ! 

What need of words to speak 
The passion throbbing through these fluttering 

hearts, 
Whose every sigh the story sweet imparts ! 
But e'en an hour like this its last sand drops. 
The gate is reached at last — beside it stops 



LOVE. 221 

Each dappled steed so sleek. 
One word, soft-spoken, breaks the happy hush ; 
'Tis only — " Marguerite ! " but yet the flush 
Upon her face grows deeper ; from her eyes 
One swiftj bright glance is flashed, then darkly 
lies 

Their fringe upon her cheek. 
A smile lights up his face from brow to chin ; 
The gate is opened, and the two pass in. 




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DOUBT. 

I. 

ITHOITT, a summer storm ! 

With fingers soft it taps against the 
pane, 

To gain an entrance seeking, but in vain ; 
Along the tiled roof patters with light feet, 
Sighing, and whispering a story sweet 

Of climes where breezes warm 
Blow over banks of ever-blooming flowers ; 
Where dreamily glide by the swift- winged 

hours ; 
Where seas are blue, and skies are ever bright ; 
Where but to breathe is exquisite delight ; 



DOUBT. 223 

Stoops with caressing touch 
O'er crocus, hyacinth, and violet blue, 
On each flow'r-f ace to leave a brighter hue ; 
Shakes playfully the nodding clover blooms, 
And flutters all the willows' budding plumes ; 

With passion overmuch 
Sweeps o'er the lawn, and through the blooming 

trees, 
All its soft fury spending upon these 
Which of the gala robes they late have worn 
Themselves are swift divesting, till the torn 

And rain-stained fragments strew 
With snowy patches all the greensward bright, 
And they stand clad in garments fresh and light, 
Their summer work all ready to begin, 
Whose fruits the autumn shall see gathered in ; 

And softly drops, and slow, 
The summer rain upon the smiling earth, 
Waking new flower-babes to joyous birth. 



224 DOUBT. 



II. 

Within, a dainty room 
Adorned with all that can delight or please, 
Conduce to comfort or luxurious ease. 
Beside the casement stands a lady slight, 
Her face, sometime so winsome, rosy, bright, 

Now clouded o'er with gloom. 
Her brow is pressed against the window-pane 
Where vainly tap the fingers of the rain ; 
Her hand, impatient, beats upon the sill ; 
Her mouth, though tremulous, is prideful still ; 

Her rounded cheek is pale ; 
Her eyes are full of tears that do not fall ; 
But ah, her heart is sadder far than all. 
The love that thrilled it late with rapture sweet, 
Already turned to pain, with anguished beat 

Throbs through it ; while the veil 



DOUBT. 225 

Her pride Las thrown across the tortured face 
Of that fair love, is growing thin apace, 
As left alone she at the window stands 
And listens sadly to its stern demands. 

The time is past o'er-soon 
When love unspoken can content her heart ; 
The words are needed now peace to impart, 
And put to flight the doubts, and wild unrest 
That fill to agony her troubled breast. 

How sweet, till yester-noon, 
Her love had been ! how perfect was the trust 
Reposed in his ! how low amid the dust 
They each are lying now, cast down by him 
"Who won them both ; who, filling to the brim 

Her cup with life's rich wine, 

Had, ere she scarce could taste it, from her hand 

The goblet snatched ! She scarce can understand 

Why it is thus ; why he has sought to win 

Her love, if he's another set within 
10* 



226 DOUBT. 

His deep heart's inmost shrine. 
Is he so selfish as to cause her pain — 
Aye, worse, humiliation — to obtain 
The idle purpose of an hour's supine 
And vain amusement ? Must she then resign 

Respect as well as love 
For one she deemed so noble, true, and kind, 
In whom she has believed with heart and mind ? 
Or has she been so vain as to mistake 
The nature of that love he sought to wake — 

Of that he seemed to prove 
In every tender smile, and act, and w^ord, 
Which to profoundest depths her heart has 

stirred ? 
At thought of this her cheeks grow red and hot. 
" It must be true !" she thinks. " He loves me 
not ; 

Or else what can it mean 
That I should see him hold her to his breast 



DOUBT. 227 

With 'passioned clasp ; that his dark face should 

rest 
With touch caressing on her rose-pink cheek 
Which on his shoulder lay. No words can speak 

The pang with which, unseen, 
I turned and fled. And though I veiled my face 
With pride, and met them later with no trace 
Of consciousness or pain, God only knows 
The heavy cloud that little picture throws 

Across my heart ; how deep 
The iron has entered in my very soul. 
Thank God I've kept a semblance of control 
Upon my pain when either has been near ; 
But oh, it's hard — so hard! He is so dear! 

Would I were but asleep 
And dreaming ! I might waken then to find 
1 He whom I trusted still is true and kind. 
But no ! he loves me not ! it is no dream ! 
'Tis not for me. a joy so deep, supreme ! 



228 DOUBT. 

But oh, I still will keep 
My faith in him in whom I have believed ; 
He must be true ; I have myself deceived ; 
It's terrible to know I've loved unsought ; 
But e'en that bitter knowledge is not fraught 

With such o'er whelming pain 
As to believe him selfish, false, unkind. 
Why should he not prefer her ? I've been blind, 
Yain, foolish, or I long ago had seen 
The deep, deep love existing them between, 

And known mine must be vain. 
And she is worthy too, is good, and sweet ; 
But oh, His hard! God give me grace to meet 
This bitter, bitter trial ; to conceal 
From him — from her, the pain I can but feel, 

The torturing jealousy 
Which wrings my heart with agony intense, 
And quivers wildly through each conscious sense. 
How can I bear to see her at his side 



DOUBT. 229 

Day after day, his loved and cherished bride ; 

How can I bear to see 
Him give to her the love I thought my own, 
Which for one little week has o'er me shone 
With joy and blessing in its every ray ; 
How can I bear to see it melt away 

From my too eager grasp, 
And see another wear the crown I crave ! 
Oh God ! I thought when from my father's 

grave 
I turned away, and to my empty home 
Went back alone, no sorrow that could come 

In after days could rasp 
With such sore agony my stricken heart. 
But oh, I did not know ! this stinging smart 
Burns deeper far ; this woe has elements 
Which entered not in that, deep and intense 

As was that hour's distress. 
I thought I'd passed from pain to peace at last ; 



230 DOUBT. 

That in this home of sweetness unsurpassed 
I might find happiness and rest, and be 
From loneliness and sorrow henceforth free. 

How could I know, or guess 
The hand that led me hither so would wound ; 
And turn to pain again the peace I'd found !" 
'Tw hard the hand should stab that has caressed, 
The lips betray our own have often pressed ! 

What wonder that her soul 
Is stung to madness as the first wild pain 
Of slighted love sweeps through it — giv'n in 

vain, 
Unsought, unwished ; as on to coming days 
She throws despairingly her anguished gaze, 

And feels upon her roll 
A heavier burden than she yet has borne, 
Deep as have been the griefs her heart have 

torn. 
Upon her face has died the hot red glow 



DOUBT. 231 

Of wounded pride ; but hotter tears o'erflow 

Her aching eyes, and burn 
Adown the velvet whiteness of her cheek ; 
Her proud lips tightly closed, her clinched hands 

speak 
The effort she is making to control 
The burning tide ; the surge of thoughts that 

roll 

Their turbid waves in turn 
Across her heart ; to don the mask of pride 
She for a moment's space has thrown aside. 



HI. 

A light tap on the door — 
Unheard by her who at the window stands 
"With quiv'ring lips compressed and tight-clinched 
hands, 



232 DOUBT. 

And eyes whose lashes brown are gemmed with 

tears, 
Restrained from falling now, while with the 

fears, 

And doubts, and anguish sore 
That swell within her heart she bravely fights, 
Though e'en the struggle but new pain excites. 
And so the gentle tap she does not hear ; 
The softly-op'ning door unto her ear 

Conveys no conscious sound ; 
But now upon the carpet footsteps fall — 
Steps so familiar they at once recall 
Her absent senses from the bitter power 
Of thoughts that sting, back to the present hour. 

She starts, and turning round, 
Looks in the smiling face of him she loves. 
Then, conscious what her agitation proves — 
How utterly she's failed to don again 



DOUBT. 233 

Her mask of pride, which should conceal her 
pain. 

An agony of shame 
Throbs through her, and she turns away her 

head, 
While to her very brow a deep, hot red 
Burns up the whiteness of her quiv'ring face, 
And yet more plainly her distress betrays. 

She feels the surging flame 
With anger and disgust that she should fail 
Her face with cool indifference to veil 
In presence of the very one she'd fain 
In ign'rance of her folly should remain. 

How could she so forget 
The unlocked door ! but then, she had not meant 
To so give way to this new discontent, 
This new, sharp pain, when she — how long ago ? 
Had entered here and paused to list the slow 

And rhythmic minuet 



234 DOUBT. 

The rain was tripping on the window pane. 
And then the bitterness that deep had lain 
Since yester-noon crushed down within her soul, 
Had torn its way through all the self-control 

She had built up with care 
To hide the ruins of her love and trust, 
Till she could bury both deep in the dust. 
And this was the result ! She had betrayed, 
And that to him, the sorrow that had made 

Her heart so sore ; laid bare 
The secret, jealous pain she'd giv'n her life 
To hide from him and all. — Sharp as a knife 
These bitter thoughts cut through her young, 

proud heart, 
And swifter than my words have pow'r to' 

impart ; 

For almost ere she turns 
Her face away from him, he to her side 



DOUBT. 235 

Has sprung, the smile from out his eyes has 

died, 
And deep concern, surprise, and wond'ring pain 
Are written there instead. The crimson stain 

Which to her temple burns 
As she her face averts from his fond gaze, 
He sees, bat it no meaning new conveys ; 
And ere it dies his arm is 'round her waist, 
Her head against his throbbing heart is placed, 

And, spite of her attempt 
To free herself from his embracing arm, 
He holds her close — exclaims with vague alarm : 
"My darling, what is this? what mean these 

tears ? 
They fill my heart with nameless painful fears. 

I truly had not dreamt 
Tou were not happy. What can have occurred 
To wound you so ? speak, Marguerite, one word, 
And tell me it is naught — a mem'ry sad — 



236 DOUBT. 

The thought of olden days. Say you are glad 

And happy in the love 
You know so well is yours. My Daisy, speak !" 
He bends his lips upon her glowing cheek. — 
" You have no sorrow now I may not share — 
"No grief that is not mine — no woe — no care." 

Ah, what does all this prove ? 
Was she then only dreaming yester-noon — 
And does he love her — her? is that great boon 
To be her own indeed ? Is it all true — 
What he just now has said ? Thus swiftly thro' 

Her half bewildered heart 
These blissful doubts flit, while beneath her 

cheek 
His heart is beating ; while he bids her speak 
And set at rest the fears he can't but feel 
At finding her like this ; while to conceal 

The joy his words impart, 



DOUBT. 237 

Her face she nestles closer to his breast, 
While in his arms she yet is fondly pressed. 



IY. 

As still he softly pleads 
For but one word that shall her tears explain, 
She lifts her eyes — which now have filled 

again — 
And flushed, and smiling too, and shy yet proud, 
Seeks in his face the love he has avowed. 

With one swift glance she reads 
The truth and passion of his faithful heart, 
And knows at last she reigns in every part. 
" Well — Marguerite ?" he says, as on his breast 
She drops her face once more, with ah, such 
rest! 

And then she murmurs low : 



238 DOUBT. 

" Oh it is nothing, Stuart ! I am glad — 
Glad as the birds. If painful thoughts and sad 
Were mine a moment since, they now are fled, 
And joy and peace are in my heart instead. 

They could not stay, you know — 
Those sad, dark thoughts, when you were by my 

side." 
This half evasive answer ; that rich tide 
Of crimson flaming in her cheek ; the tones 
Half fond, and half reserved, with which she 

owns 

Joy doth his coming greet, 
A strong suspicion in his heart awakes. 
His clasp he loosens — in his hands he takes 
Her blushing cheeks, and gazing in her face 
A moment silently, he smiling says : 

" You've dared to doubt me, sweet 1 
Dared to believe that I could play with you, 
And be to love, and to my soul untrue. 






DOUBT. 239 

What means it? how such doubts have I de- 
served 
Whose heart not e'en in thought from you has 
swerved 

Since that glad night in which 
I first beheld this proud, this perfect face, 
And lost my heart in one admiring gaze ? 
My brown-eyed Daisy, tell me what it means 
That you could doubt me !" On his breast she 
leans 

Her shy face colored rich 
With love's enchanting bloom, as she replies 
With sweet, gay laugh : " Nay, you are not so 

wise 
Perchance, as you believe. How dare you doubt 
2Iy faith and trust in you — and this without 

One shade of evidence ? 
What reason have Zgiv'n for such distrust? 
As to my tears — well, if confess I must, 



240 DOUBT. 

I own they came as come some summer showers, 
Swift, fierce, yet brief, and like those op'ning 
flowers 

Whose breath steeps every sense 
In pleasure exquisite, till we forget 
The storm that opened them, the tears that wet 
Their fragrant faces as they burst to bloom, 
Intensifying all their soft perfume. 

Storms needful are, and good ! 
See how the earth smiles 'neath the grateful 

tears 
The troubled sky is weeping ! when appears 
Once more the sun, and clouds are swept aside, 
The skies a deeper blue will wear ; the wide 

Green fields, yon tossing wood 
Will then a brighter, fresher hue display ; 
And on that sloping hillside far away 
ISTew blossoms wild and sweet will ope their eyes 
The glowing world to gaze on with surprise." 



DOUBT. 241 

"What of the storm within?" 
He smiling asks, and bends to see her face. 
" Oh, that too, as I said, has given place 
To sunshine, and has opened many a flower 
Whose closed buds hid their beauty till this 
hour." 

" The storm to you has been 
A harbinger of peace and joy ?" he says, 
And reads the answer in her glowing face. 



V. 

A happy hour glides by 

While they of present, past, and future speak, ' 

Then, while a deeper crimson lights her cheek, 

And a last doubt its shadow o'er her throws, 

With hesitation shy she says — " And Rose !" 

" Well, what of Rose ?" His eye 
11 



242 DOUBT. 

He smiling bends upon her downcast face ; 
And as he gazes, in his mind apace 
A vague suspicion grows : Ah, there then lies 
The secret of the storm—the tear-filled eyes, 

The crimson cheeks, the lips 
Whose quiv'ring broke the sweet mouth's pride- 

f ul lines 
When first he sought her here. He read the 

signs 
Correctly then ; she doubted him ; the cause 
Dear Kose — poor Rose ! A moment's thoughtful 

pause, 

And then his hand he slips 
Beneath the fair round chin, lifts up her face, 
And waits till she her conscious eyes shall 

raise 
To meet his own. Awhile she restless bears 
His look intent, then lifts her eyes and dares 
Whatever they may meet. 



DOUBT. 243 

A long, fond glance; then, smiling, "What of 

Eose? 
Poor Eose ! " his kind face graver, sadder grows. 
" Poor Eose ! life has been stern to her," he says, 
" And giv'n her more of pain and bitterness 

Than many know, my sweet, 
In half a century of troubled years. 
Those soft blue eyes familiar are with tears 
Such as but few have wept ; that gentle heart 
Is often filled with pain in every part. 

I told you, Marguerite, 
How sadly in her youth she was bereft 
Of all she loved, and how she came, when left 
Alone and desolate, our home to share, 
And make it bright with all her graces fair. 

I told you how to me 
She filled a sister's place, and with my dear 
And lovely mother made my home as near 
Perfection as could be an earthly home. 



244 DOUBT. 

We blessed the day in which our Rose had 
come 

Our joy and pride to be. 
Scarce had our bud expanded into bloom, 
When one, attracted by its rich perfume 
And lovely hues, aspired to pluck and wear 
Our dainty blossom ; but we could not spare 

So soon our treasured flower ; 
And ere the day arrived when we should place 
Our darling in his keeping, Death's cold grace 
Lay on his silent lips, and close-shut eyes ; 
And crushed and broken, as a flower lies 

Cut down in evil hour 
By ruthless hands, our poor Rose lay that 

day, 
And saw life's brightness swiftly turn to grey. 
Long was it ere she rallied, and took up 
Once more its burdens ; for the bitter cup 

Her gentle lips had drained 



DOUBT. 245 

Seemed to have poisoned all life's springs, and 

left 
Her utterly of vital pow'r bereft. 
But tender care availed, and health and strength 
Gave back the color to our Rose at length ; 

Though in her heart remained 
The shaft which death had left implanted there. 
But she is brave, and hides the wound with care. 
No word of hers the rankling pain reveals 
Which even now from life its brightness steals, 

As we who love her know. 
The hours are many which all darkness prove. 
They loved each other with no common love; 
Sucli love as even death cannot destroy." 
He clasps her closer, and with chastened joy, 

And eyes that tears o'er-flow, 
The girl looks up to meet the tender glance 
Of him whose every look her heart enchants ; 
And while her soul with pity deep is stirred 



246 



DOUBT. 



For her whose brief sad story she has heard, 
She feels with thankful glow 
How good and gracious God to her has been, 
And deeper grows the joy her heart within. 














FINALE. 

I. 

ARK to the merry bells ! 

Upon the slumbrous air flung far and 
near 
Peals oat their mellow chiming, soft yet 

clear ; 
And as their music floats o'er hill and plain, 
All the glad echoes chant a sweet refrain. 
With every note that swells 
Upon the dreamy air, deep organ tones 
Are sweetly blending, — not- with plaintive 
moans, 



248 



FINALE. 



But with a joyous burst rolls grandly out 

The Wedding March, and lingers sweet 

about 

The echoing arches high 
Upon whose proud support the old church 

leans. 
No need to ask what bell or music means, 
Nor why yon altar is a fragrant bower 
En woven thick of many a snowy flower ; 

No need to query why 
That fiutt'ring, gay-robed throng fills up the 

chairs 
Thick scattered through the nave to altar 

stairs. 
But now a hush falls o'er the waiting crowd, 
Broke only by a rustle, and the loud 

Triumphant organ notes, 
As through the wide-swung doors, preceded 

slow 



FINALE 249 

By ushers decked with favors white as snow, 
The fair bride comes with downcast eyes, and 

cheeks 
"Whose heightened crimson eloquently speaks 

The joy this hour promotes. 
Her simple dress becomes her royally ; 
Her sweet, bright face a pleasure 'tis to see, 
As up the aisle upon the arm of him 
Who takes her father's place — whose eyes are 

dim 

With pleasure and regret — 

She comes, until before the chancel he 

Whose wedded wife she shortly is to be, 

Receives her, blushing, at his father's hands, 

And with her at the flow'r-decked altar stands. 

Then softer, fainter yet 

The organ's throbbing harmonies become, 

And die in silence ; all the church is dumb ; 

Till on the hush in solemn tones and slow 
11* 



248 



FINALE. 



But with a joyous burst rolls grandly out 

The Wedding March, and lingers sweet 

about 

The echoing arches high 
Upon whose proud support the old church 

leans. 
No need to ask what bell or music means, 
Nor why yon altar is a fragrant bower 
En woven thick of many a snowy flower ; 

No need to query why 
That fiutt'ring, gay-robed throng fills up the 

chairs 
Thick scattered through the nave to altar 

stairs. 
But now a hush falls o'er the waiting crowd, 
Broke only by a rustle, and the loud 

Triumphant organ notes, 
As through the wide-swung doors, preceded 

slow 



FINALE. 251 

And down the aisle the bridal train retrace 

Their steps — while loud and clear 
From belfry tow'r the swift, gay chimings swell, 
" And all is merry as the marriage bell." 



Finis. 




